


Silver Spider

by irhinoceri



Series: We Few Against The Wind [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Animal Death, Background Relationships, Childhood Trauma, Cousland (Dragon Age) Being an Asshole, Cousland (Dragon Age) is not a Grey Warden, Denial of Feelings, E is for Existential Crisis, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Feelings Realization, Grey Warden Stamina, Hardened Alistair (Dragon Age), Jealousy, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Wardens (Dragon Age), POV Alistair (Dragon Age), POV Morrigan (Dragon Age), Past Morrigan/Cousland (Dragon Age), Post-Coital Cuddling, Rough Sex, Sex Magic, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irhinoceri/pseuds/irhinoceri
Summary: Alistair decides to give up on his dreams of true love and engage in meaningless sex with the one person he is sure would never love him back. Morrigan tries very hard to not care about anything and ends up caring very hard about everything. Cousland has issues. Grey Wardens & Co. are nosy. What could possibly go wrong.
Relationships: Alistair & Male Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Female Brosca & Morrigan (Dragon Age)
Series: We Few Against The Wind [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2037403
Comments: 70
Kudos: 43





	1. It started out with a kiss... (The North Road)

Alistair was trying to mind his own business, relaxing in camp one night on the North Road, between Kinloch Hold and Denerim. He was trying not to think about the abominations and Fade nightmares back at the Tower.

He turned a smooth runestone with silver markings over in his hand, enjoying the cool sensation of the polished stone, the faint lines where he could feel the silver interrupting the surface, and the slight magical energy of the object. Being at the Circle had forced him to concentrate with renewed focus on his aborted Templar training, and he was still feeling extra attuned to magical energies around him. Mostly those energies came from various enchanted items they all carried with them, but was strongest near the mages. Solomae, Nelmirea, Wynne, and of course, Morrigan.

“Alistair!”

It was Morrigan’s voice, shouting his name from across the clearing, and she sounded… angry? Maker, what was it  _ now? _ Had Barkspawn left another dead animal in her pack? The hound—whom everyone thought of as  _ his _ ever since the mabari had singled him out to follow around—seemed dead set on bothering Morrigan and causing problems between them, as if she needed more encouragement to be irritated with him.

“What?” he shouted back, deciding to be snappish.

“Come over here.” She sounded less angry than he’d initially thought, but impatient. Irritable. Her low voice could be almost mellow sometimes, when she was in a good mood, but had a rough edge when she was exasperated with him or any of the others.

He groaned. A day of marching and all he wanted to do was sit down for a bit, before having to set up his tent and start cooking dinner for the camp. How he’d become the designated cook despite there being over a dozen people in their company, he did not know.

But he got up anyway. Best not to keep Morrigan waiting.

She was standing near the other mages, save for Wynne, who spent the nights at camp mixing up healing poultices. The older mage had joined their group upon leaving the Tower, but so far the young women didn’t seem too keen on her company. It was too bad. Alistair liked her. She was motherly, which perhaps explained why the young mages all rolled their eyes and snickered at her.

“What is it?” he asked, approaching Morrigan. He looked around for Barkspawn and saw his hound a little ways off, wrestling playfully with Cousland’s mabari, Calenhad.

“There is an urgent matter which requires your assistance,” Morrigan said, coolly.

That made him pause. “You need  _ my _ help?” He smiled before he could stop himself.

“Regrettably, I do.” Her lips were pursed into a sour expression. She tossed her head back towards Solomae and Nelmirea, who were sitting together, as they often did. The human and the elf were looking back with twin expressions of… glee? Well, he was glad they seemed to be over the Circle, finally. Seeing their old home under siege and all their former acquaintances in various stages of death and dying had shaken the two, and they’d been quiet and reserved ever since, pulling away from the others in camp and largely only spending time together.

“Our Circle friends have decided to torment me. Revenge for my lack of compassion towards their corralled brethren, or some such nonsense, I do believe. They have acquired something of my mother’s which I desire for myself, and they are exacting a price, though tis a priceless object.”

He considered this information carefully for a moment, trying to figure out what it had to do with him, then asked, “What is it?”

“Tis a grimoire that was stolen by meddling templars long ago, and has been kept in the Tower until now. I made a grave error, asking for assistance in locating it. Nelmirea knew just the book I described, but she and Solomae will not give it over unless I play their game. There you have it. Extortion. I would be impressed if twere not so irritating to have to fulfil their request.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

He shrugged. “In-fighting amongst the mages, eh? Same old problem, different day. What do they want and what has this got to do with me? I’m  _ not _ a templar.”

He looked over her shoulder at the mages and saw wicked delight in their eyes. They were dangling this prize above her head, figuratively speaking, trying to make her dance for it like a trained mabari. Like they were all children at a party playing games. It was almost funny.

Morrigan sighed heavily and closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. “The price for my mother’s grimoire is a kiss.”

“I didn’t realize they liked you that much.”

“They do not want to kiss me, you dolt. They wish for me to kiss you.”

“Ha! Good one.”

“I am glad you approve of their childish behavior. Twill make this simple, then.”

“Wait, what?”

“Tis most unpleasant for me to have to ask, I assure you, but I  _ will _ have this book. I could wrest it from them with violence, tis true. But that would, I imagine, cause too much of a stir and likely anger the rest of the Wardens.”

He found himself looking at her lips and blushed. Then he turned to Solomae and Nelmirea, calling out to them, “Just give her the book, we’re supposed to all be working together.”

“Just kiss her, we’re supposed to all be working together,” Nelmirea called back, and Solomae laughed, too loud.

“Tell me, are all children raised by the Chantry utter buffoons? Or do I simply have the misfortune of meeting all the most problematic ones Andraste has to offer?” Morrigan asked.

“Hey now, I was Irving’s star pupil,” Solomae retorted. “I was  _ perfect. _ My life was perfect until this degenerate ruffian ruined everything.”

Nelmirea cackled, and handed Solomae a glass bottle, which the other lifted to her lips. That was when Alistair noticed the sloppy way they were lounging against each other, and put two and two together.

“They’ve been drinking,” he said.

“Clearly,” Morrigan responded.

Drinking to forget? He sighed. The mortifying prospect of kissing Morrigan for the entertainment of others was suddenly less pressing than the fact that his Wardens were being drunk and unruly instead of dealing with their issues. He  _ was _ their Senior Warden and nominal leader, still, despite never really… leading… 

He should probably be doing something about… something. Having a heart to heart with them about knowing what it was like to see your mentors fall… your illusions about the world crushed… wanting to say fuck it and do something stupid rather than risk utter failure once more. But then what would he say?  _ Strap yourselves in, ladies, because it’s probably going to get a lot worse before it gets better. _ He’d probably just end up grabbing the bottle and getting drunk with them.

He offered some advice to Morrigan instead. “You could probably wait until they’ve gotten past the silly drunk stage and reach the maudlin bit that’s coming up, when they start crying. Then you can take the grimoire after they’ve passed out.”

Morrigan crossed her arms and put one finger to her lips, appearing thoughtful. “I could do that,” she mused, and it was not lost on him that the first good idea he’d ever had, in her estimation, was a reason to avoid kissing her.

“Oy, we can hear you! You think I can’t hold my drink because I’m an  _ elf,  _ shems?” Nelmirea barked at them.

“She can drink an ogre under the table,” Solomae announced, proudly.

“It’s magic,” Nelmirea intoned, suddenly looking incredibly serious. “Darkest magic.”

Morrigan chose that moment to reach out and put a hand on his arm. It was not a gentle or seductive motion; she grabbed his elbow to reclaim his attention and said, with an impatient huff, “Twill be quick and painless, then we may forget this foolishness and move on.”

“You don’t actually want me to…?”

“What I want is to claim the grimoire and spend the rest of the night studying it in peace,” said Morrigan. “This negotiation is more painful than the act itself will be, I am sure.”

“Kiss her, templar boy!” Solomae shouted. Nelmirea whooped.

Alistair was frozen in place. He’d always imagined a kiss would be a special act, with someone he loved and who loved him back, both their hearts leaping and butterflies fluttering and all that.

He’d only had one kiss in his life before, and that was when Lythra Mahariel had surprised him with one atop the Tower of Ishal, right before the door had been beaten down and darkspawn had poured in and nearly killed the both of them. He’d thought it meant something, but she’d made it clear later, after they’d both survived thanks to Flemeth, that it meant nothing and had been a heat of the moment kiss before dying. There had not been a second kiss, though he’d been foolish enough to hope for one until she set him to rights about it.

Morrigan being the second person he ever kissed would be… well, stupid, that’s what. Terribly ironic, too, considering she was the one person in camp who hated him the most and was the most open about despising him and thinking he made a terrible leader for the Wardens. Well, besides Sten, anyway. He almost laughed out loud at the thought of kissing the hulking, broody Qunari, but kept it together enough to just smile awkwardly at Morrigan and lick his lips like a fool.

“Alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, tampering down the terrified squeakiness that threatened to strangle his words. “Ahem. Make it quick, then.”

She waved her fingers forward in a beckoning motion, and he leaned down. She tilted her face up to meet his, and then his lips were pressed to hers, and then… it was over. She backed away, turned towards their audience, and made an exaggerated, swooping bow.

Solomae clapped delightedly and Nelmirea guffawed, falling to the side, her laughter so loud and boisterous that it seemed too big of a sound to come from such a small elven woman.

Morrigan stalked up to them and held out her hand. “The book, if you please.”

“Alright, alright,” Solomae said. She shifted to the side and pulled a large black tome out from underneath her. Apparently she had been sitting on Flemeth’s priceless grimoire. She hiccuped, sending Nelmirea into further gales of laughter, and Morrigan snatched the book up in both hands.

Alistair was just standing there, not sure what to do with himself now that he’d served his purpose. His lips were slightly moist from the kiss and he reached up to wipe them with the back of his hand, staring dumbly at Morrigan as she clutched her prize to her chest. She met his eyes, looked like she might say something, but then didn’t. She merely nodded to him and then turned away and scuttled off to her tent.

It occurred to him that he probably should have extorted his own price for participating in that little bit of theatre. He should have asked,  _ What’s in it for me? _ Maker but he was stupid. Obviously no one had offered him anything in exchange for kissing Morrigan because they thought the very act itself would be his reward and motivation.

He’d walked right into their trap, blundering merrily into it like a fool, and he was sure he’d never live it down.

He couldn’t imagine Duncan being mocked so openly and used for sport by the Wardens under his command, which just revealed how silly it was that the others pretended he was their leader. No one actually respected him, and he was acutely aware of the fact that his nomination as “leader” was only meant to keep the peace between the stronger minded members of their group. The disgraced dwarven Prince, Duran Aeducan, the fallen Lordling, Aedan Cousland, and the taciturn Qunari Sten… they would all devolve into spats with each other, exacerbated by the fact that Cousland and Sten were not Grey Wardens, merely warriors with overly large egos. Having Alistair serve as a meditator kept them from all killing each other. Well, Sten didn’t care for Alistair’s opinion one bit, but at least there was an agreement between everyone that if Sten ever tried to take over they would all unite to fight him together.

Mostly, though, the Wardens just liked to have Alistair there to push forward in case the Commander of the Grey ever needed to take the fall for something they did. His face being on the wanted posters and Loghain publicly accusing him of orchestrating his own brother’s death was an irony so deep he expected it to get overrun by darkspawn.

Fuck it. Didn’t matter. They had a Blight to stop and if him being the Grey Warden punching bag lifted morale and united them, then so be it.

He tried to shake himself out of it, allowing a full body shudder and a light slap of his own face before he went to busy himself with getting dinner ready.

He glanced back at the sauced mages and shook his head. They were going to be useless for the rest of the night. Someone else would have to cover their watches, and he didn’t want to be that someone, but he had a feeling it would end up that way, anyway.

He didn’t see Morrigan again for the rest of the night, as true to her word she stayed tucked away in her tent, studying her precious spellbook. As Alistair had predicted, Solomae and Nelmirea’s revelry turned dark by the time they reached the bottom of their second bottle.

Deep, wracking sobs echoed throughout the camp, coming from Solomae, and when he looked over to see if he should do anything, he saw Nelmirea cradling her follow mage and rocking her back and forth like a child. He decided to leave them alone.

Over supper he got a disapproving look from Cousland, who took his food silently and went off to sit by himself. The mages had made enough noise to let the entire camp know what was happening, giving anyone who cared the opportunity to see the awkward kiss. Alistair just shrugged at the wordless rebuke from Cousland, not knowing what he was supposed to say for himself.

At one point, Cousland had been spending nights in Morrigan’s tent.

He’d charmed his way into her good graces on the road between Lothering and Redcliffe. There had been some flirtation, some kissing, and then she had taken Cousland to her tent. Alistair had been forced to listen to them, since Cousland had gone to Morrigan when Alistair relieved him of his watch for the night, and Alistair had been left standing near the edge the camp, listening attentively for any sound… because that’s what you were supposed to do on watch. He’d heard no wildlife, bandits, or darkspawn rustling in the bushes, but had heard every moment of Cousland and Morrigan’s first encounter.

It’s not like he had been jealous. He’d figured the witch was likely to suck out Cousland’s soul when she was through with sucking on other things. No thanks!

He’d once overheard Morrigan telling Leliana of the horrors of being Flemeth’s daughter, saying, “My mother's stories curdled my blood and haunted my dreams. No little girl wants to hear about the Wilder men her mother took to her bed, using them till they were spent, then killing them. No little girl wants to be told that this is also expected of her, once she comes of age.”

Leliana had reacted with stammering discomfort. “I… uh… I see.”

Morrigan’s voice was cold. “No, you don't. You really don't.”

Then she had turned and looked straight at Alistair, as if knowing that he had been eavesdropping. He’d quickly averted his eyes, pretending that he was engrossed in inspecting the forest line beyond the road for signs of darkspawn or bandits. But he did not look away fast enough to avoid locking eyes with the witch, however briefly, and that awkward moment lodged itself in his mind permanently.

He didn’t know if she was playing up the evil seductress witch of the wilds routine to scandalize Leliana or to warn him away from lustful thoughts. She had accused him of staring at her too openly before, rebuking him with an icy, “Have a care where your eyes linger,” when she caught him gazing after her on the road one too many times. He knew well enough that she did not like him, and that she had nothing but contempt for Leliana, so it was easy to believe that she was just making things up to scare them. Likely there wasn’t a shred of truth to any of it.

He didn’t really want to think about an old woman like Flemeth ravaging and killing Wilder men. He definitely didn’t want to think about whether or not Morrigan had done the same since becoming a woman. But think about it he did. He thought about it when he was drifting off to sleep in his bedroll every night. He thought about it when she and Cousland retreated to her tent.

Cousland had survived that encounter, and several others. What their current status was remained unclear, however.

After departing Redcliffe, leaving Cousland’s twin sister behind in Teagan Guerrin’s care, the group had traveled north to Orzammar. Cousland had bought a beautiful golden mirror from one of the merchants in the commons, which then ended up in Morrigan’s possession.

But that was a couple of weeks ago, and they were not now spending their nights together, as far as Alistair had been able to observe. They had stopped walking together or sitting together in camp and barely spoke to one another. Something had happened between then, Alistair just didn’t know what.

Alistair didn’t mean to be nosy… wait, no, he did. Sod it. He was very curious what was going on between them, as they’d gone from cozy and flirty to ignoring each other completely on the road from Orzammar east to Kinloch Hold. But any attempts (from anyone) to inquire about it was met with evasion from them both.

He had gossiped fairly gleefully with Leliana about them. Perhaps it wasn’t right to make mean comments and snicker about it, but doing so made him feel slightly less mortified about having to listen to them go at it.

Leliana said that Morrigan had woken her up in the middle of the night with her shrieks, sounding like a genlock being murdered, and commented that she was loud enough to alert the Grey Wardens all the way up in the Anderfels.

That was overdoing it, but he’d laughed anyway, and Leliana seemed pleased to have amused him. It was a pleasant surprise to find out that Leliana had a little bit of a mean streak under her guileless Chantry laysister exterior. It came out in little flashes sometimes, despite her best efforts, and it often seemed related to Morrigan in some way, as if the hedge witch set Leliana off the same way she did Alistair.

He’d witnessed Leliana attempting to befriend Morrigan shortly after she left Lothering with them. Every time she tried to strike upon a conversation, though, Morrigan had shot her down with contempt.

After being mocked one too many times Leliana had stopped trying to be friendly, and Alistair, having overheard most of these encounters, felt compelled to tell her not to worry about Morrigan. That was just the way she was. The only people she seemed to get along with were Cousland, and Lythra Mahariel, and even that was iffy at times.

Leliana’s reaction to the kiss he’d given Morrigan that night was harder to read than Cousland’s. She didn’t send a withering glare Alistair’s way or stomp off to be by herself, like Cousland, but he definitely felt a note of displeasure in her voice when she spoke to him over supper. She must be miffed with him for seemingly falling prey to Morrigan’s wiles the same way Cousland had. He could sympathize with her perspective: after all, how was she supposed to gossip with him about Morrigan if he was the one falling under the witch’s spell?

He might have told her she didn’t need to worry, that he was immune to whatever Cousland had found so compelling about Morrigan for a time. That would not be him. No. It was just a dare. An ill-advised joke. Nothing more. He believed in true love and was determined to wait until he found the right person, and Morrigan was definitely not the right person.

But Leliana didn’t ask for an explanation outright, and he didn’t really want to bring it up, even if it meant things were uncomfortably silent for the time being.

Lythra did not react at all to the comedy show that night. She was no more silent or sullen towards him over supper than she had been ever since leaving the Wilds. So, no change there. He was a ghost to her, now, someone who should have conveniently died atop the Tower of Ishal so that she no longer had to look at him.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected from her, or why he had thought to expect anything at all.


	2. A Notable Lack of Insults (The North Road / Denerim)

The next morning Solomae and Nelmirea were bleary-eyed and groggy, dark circles under their eyes. Alistair walked up to them, kicking aside an empty bottle, and said, “Well children, what have we learned about drinking?”

“Shut up,” Solomae muttered, rubbing her eyes.

“Go away. This is a No Templar Zone,” said Nelmirea, making a rude hand gesture in his direction.

“Fine, I’ll go ask Wynne to have a word with you.”

“Piss off.”

He did just that, leaving them to their hangovers. It seems he was very unpopular with the Grey Warden mages these days.

As he was breaking down his tent he saw Morrigan doing the same with hers across the camp, and his mind went immediately to the memory of her lips briefly pressed against his. That was really going to be a problem, wasn’t it?

It had taken him a while to get over the memory of Lythra’s kiss at the Tower of Ishal. They still barely spoke to each other, and he’d thought they’d been almost friends before that night. Bringing up the kiss afterwards had been a huge mistake, one he’d blundered into like a stupid, lovesick puppy, and he cursed himself for not just leaving it lie.

The last thing… the  _ absolute last thing _ he needed was to be thinking about Morrigan that way, too. He didn’t need a reputation around camp of being a horny fool who panted after all the women who didn’t want him.

Morrigan passed by him when she was ready to leave, and though she did not acknowledge his existence, he stopped what he was doing and said, “So how was the book? Worth every moment?”

She paused, her eyes confused for a moment, as if he’d drawn her out of a deep and troubled reverie. Then she blinked. A furrow of something like worry knit her brow, and she said, “Twas most illuminating.”

He thought she might continue on past him, but instead she lingered, and he wondered what was coming next. Barkspawn nudged her legs and she absently reached down to pet the hound. He nosed at her pack and she murmured, “Not now,” reprovingly before inquiring of Alistair, “You plan on returning to Ostagar, do you not?”

“Yes, at some point,” he said.

“Do you not wish to investigate as soon as possible?”

“Perhaps after we talk to Genitivi and get his help finding the Ashes,” Alistair told her, choosing to be optimistic. “We’ll be back to Redcliffe once we can help Eamon, and Ostagar isn’t too far from there.”

It was pretty far, actually, but relative to their current location on the North Road the Wilds and the Hinterlands were close. Too close for comfort, as Lothering had already been overrun by darkspawn in the weeks following the fall of Ostagar.

“I see,” was all Morrigan said, sounding distracted and distant.

“Why? Homesick? Want to visit the old homestead?”

“Most assuredly not,” she responded, but gave no further elaboration, and walked away.

Barkspawn trotted after her, and Alistair watched them long enough to see Morrigan surreptitiously pull something from her pack and hold her hand down at her side. She looked pointedly off into the distance as Barkspawn snatched the treat from her hand and bounded away.

It occurred to him that they’d just had a very normal conversation, with a notable lack of insults or pointed barbs. It wasn’t exactly friendly, and far from warm, but a short exchange about travel plans without ire counted as pleasant when it came to Morrigan.

Her bringing up Ostagar got him to thinking about that place, that horrible battle, and the deaths of Cailan, Duncan and almost all the Wardens.

He still had the key Elric Maraigne had given them when they encountered the man outside Kinloch Hold, and though he wanted to go back and use it, finding a way to revive Eamon and receive guidance from his old guardian was at the top of his current priorities. They had already wasted much time detouring up to Orzammar and stopping at the mage tower on their way east towards Denerim.

After their first visit to Redcliffe, and upon finding Eamon unconscious, he had bowed to Duran Aeducan’s wishes to return to Orzammar and present his father, King Endrin, with the Grey Warden treaties. Alistair and Cousland both wished to go to Denerim and seek out Brother Genitivi right away, but some of the others thought that getting advice or backing from Eamon was immaterial, and that they should be concentrating on the treaties instead.

As much as Alistair was tempted to actually put his foot down and remind them of his seniority, or the pretense that he was their “leader,” he had instead followed Duran’s lead.

For all that, they had left the dwarven city frustrated, as King Endrin was dead and they were unable to secure an audience with the contenders for the throne. Neither Prince Bhelan nor Lord Harrowmont would see them without assurance that they would support them over the other. Duran and Natia Brosca had fought with each other so viciously over the question of who should be King, that Alistair feared it would be the end of the Grey Wardens truly this time. He was sure they’d splinter and break based on who agreed with Natia and who favored Duran.

This was exactly why Wardens weren’t supposed to be involved in politics. Stopping the Blight and fighting the darkspawn was more important than whose ass got to polish the Dwarven throne. Any throne. But it was deeply personal to both of the dwarven Wardens; the issue was not about politics at all but about family instead.

Apparently, Natia’s sister was involved  _ (involved)  _ with Prince Bhelan and it was a good thing for the casteless dwarf to be mistress to a noble. Unlike human society, bearing the bastard child of a noble elevated the mother, bringing honor to her and child, rather than disgrace to the noble father.

_ Imagine that, _ Alistair had thought.

The only thing getting in the way of this happy familial prospect was the fact that Bhelan and Duran had fallen out with each other in a very messy way before Duran became a Grey Warden.

They left without a king on the throne in Orzammar and with no agreement from anyone to honor the treaties, because Alistair had not been the only one impatient with the situation underground. He hoped that if they left and took care of other business, the royal stalemate would work itself out by the time they returned, and Natia and Duran wouldn’t have to kill each other over it.

His reasons were mostly to do with Eamon, who lingered near death, but thankfully he was not the only one who felt they had better things to be doing than playing kingmakers. A week later they were sailing across Lake Calenhad to reach the Circle Tower, thinking to make a quick stop on their way to Denerim.

They’d been more successful this time, leaving Kinloch Hold with Wynne, and First Enchanter Irving’s gratitude for sparing the Circle from Annulment. He also gave his promise to honor the Warden treaties, so all in all, this was a high point. When they stumbled upon Elric it was like a sign from the Maker that they were meant to succeed, as Cailan’s posthumous gift to them was just waiting to be claimed in the ruins of Ostagar.

Still, they were taking the North Road to Denerim from Kinloch Hold, so it didn’t make sense to go all the way back south just yet.

After the camp was broken down completely and they were ready to be on their way, he allowed himself another surreptitious glance towards Morrigan, wondering what her interest in Ostagar was. It was far too close to her home in the Wilds and her mother for him to believe that Flemeth held no interest for her. Maybe she had found some concern for her mother in that cold heart of hers, rekindled by her mother’s grimoire, but dared not ask for them to venture back south so far into the darkspawn territory, unless some other reason could be found. He wondered what it would take for her to make the suggestion.

* * *

On their way across the North Road, they were waylaid by assassins.

Thanks to Korren Tabris, they learned that Loghain had hired the Antivan Crows to take out the surviving Grey Wardens.

Korren crouched down over the unconscious body of the elven assassin who had just ambushed them, and touched a hand to his neck, announcing that there was still a pulse. Then he insisted that they tie him up and question him rather than put an end to him right then and there.

There had been some grousing from certain quarters about not wasting their time on taking prisoners, but Korren had had his way in the end. He questioned the prisoner thoroughly, and then announced that their recent enemy would like to join them.

If anyone needed any proof that Alistair was not, actually, in charge, Zevran Arainai’s continued presence was it.

It was one thing to keep a homicidal Qunari in their company, and quite another to recruit an assassin who had been hired specifically to murder Grey Wardens.

He wasn’t the only one who felt this way, but Korren dug his heels in. He had a good feeling about the Crow, he said. Leliana also vouched for him, citing something about bard’s honor, which didn’t quite make sense to Alistair. An assassin’s honor came from completing their contracts and satisfying their employers, didn’t it?

It surprised Alistair that Morrigan appeared to agree with him that welcoming the assassin into their ranks was a bad idea. He had gotten used to the idea that Morrigan would disagree with anything he said and he half expected her to favor the assassin out of spite, but she echoed his suspicion of Zevran’s motivations. Not that it mattered. This was a hill that Korren was prepared to die on, and no one really wanted to stand around arguing about it.

Of the elves that Duncan had gathered, Korren was the one most vocally concerned with the wellbeing of elvenkind. Alistair was sure that if their Crow assassin had been a man—a shemlen—Korren wouldn’t have given two shits about his death. That’s just how Korren was.

Lythra was Dalish, but she didn’t seem to care much one way or the other about who they killed. The Dalish as a whole had a reputation for being traditionalists who sought to preserve ancient elven culture and valued their isolation from modern human society. From the start Lythra had exhibited little concern for the world in which she now found herself.

Her apathy seemed only to grow as time went on. She continued to travel with them, giving no indication that she intended to desert, and she fought ably, but beyond that did not seem to care about anything. There had been a time he thought she might care about him, just a little, but she had set him straight about that.

Nelmirea had grown up in the Circle Tower and claimed to be disconnected from “elf stuff,” defining herself as mage first and elf second. She had memories of being born and raised in the Highever alienage, and admitted to having a Dalish grandmother, but resisted Korren’s efforts to engage her in conversation or connect with her on an elven level.

Korren, however, was one sewing kit away from stitching “Elf Rights” into his clothing and making banners to carry on the road. He was not shy about telling them of the daily injustices of alienage life. He was particularly abrasive towards Cousland, asking the noble about the elven servants that toiled in his family’s castle, reminding him that his betrothed had come from Highever’s alienage and spoke of it as being “worse” than Denerim’s, a situation Korren could hardly fathom.

As for Alistair… well, Korren initially had called him  _ shem _ with casual indifference, not seeming to think much of him, but after learning that he was the bastard son of King Maric and the half-brother to King Cailan, treated him with the same ire that he directed towards Aedan. Korren didn’t like humans, but he outright despised nobles.

Naturally, Alistair did not want to anger Korren further by murdering Zevran, but he still thought it very stupid to welcome the Crow as an unfettered member of their crew. He was overruled. As always.

At any rate, once they had the talkative Antivan in their party, Alistair became very careful with the food at night, guarding it judiciously from any possible poisoning efforts. He never left the soup pot alone until it had been emptied, everyone having eaten their fill. Zevran was aware of this, and appeared amused, always thanking Alistair for making such “delicious, healthy, well-seasoned stew” and calling him “my friend” at every opportunity. The Antivan was nothing if not sarcastic.

Alistair began to sleep even more lightly than usual. It was made clear to Korren that their new recruit was his responsibility to monitor, but that didn’t stop Alistair from keeping one eye open in case the assassin decided to fulfil his contract by going from tent to tent slitting throats in the night.

Despite this paranoia, or perhaps because of this caution, they all made it to Denerim alive and unpoisoned.

Unfortunately, their reason for traveling to Denerim in the first place, Brother Genitivi, was not at home. His assistant, Weylon, nearly sent them all the way back to where they had just come from, Kinloch Hold, but Zevran irritatingly proved his worth by suggesting that there was something not quite right about Weylon. His finely attuned assassin senses were tingling, or something, and Leliana agreed with him. Korren, naturally, did as well.

This led to the discovery of the dead body of the  _ real _ Weylon in the back room and the letter revealing that Genitivi had gone to a place called Haven, in the southwest region of the Frostbacks.

It was decided that they would head down the West Road starting the next day, but in the meantime they had time to kill in Ferelden’s capital, as long as they could keep out of trouble.

Alistair decided this would be a good time to seek out Goldanna, the half-sister he had never met. He didn’t know when he’d be in Denerim again, or if he’d live to see another chance like this, so uncertain was life as a Grey Warden during a Blight.

He didn’t initially intend to involve anyone else in his personal matter, but Cousland proved difficult to get rid of.

Things were a little edgy between them, from time to time, but Cousland now seemed to be warming to him again. At least, he was talking to him. They didn’t mention Morrigan, or Elissa, which was for the best. When Cousland had first found out that Alistair was the last Theirin by blood, he had started talking about an alliance between them in the form of Alistair marrying his twin sister and making a bid for the throne. It was a very stupid idea, for very many reasons, and Alistair had told him that, but he hadn’t given up on it yet. Whenever he brought it up it ended in an argument.

Now, Cousland said that he wanted to talk “strategy,” which Alistair found both flattering and ominous. He wondered how long it would take Cousland to understand that though he was also a noble’s son, they really didn’t have that much in common. He was bastard born and Chantry raised, and he’d never felt his noble blood did him any good. Not that Alistair completely resented the attempts at bonding, but it seemed like Cousland was just desperate for a peer and didn’t see anyone else in their group as a possible ally, because of differences in class or race.

Still, whatever his reasons, Cousland was sticking to Alistair like glue once they were settled at the inn by the city gates in Denerim. So while the others split up into various smaller groups to explore the city, Alistair broached the subject of meeting his half-sister to Cousland and asked if he would come along, “for moral support.”

Cousland was not very enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to accompany him, and so they set off.


	3. Alistair's Family / Le petite spider (Denerim)

Alistair left his half-sister’s house near the edge of the alienage and walked out onto the street, dazed and hurt.

But that was only the beginning.

“I’m sorry, Alistair. What a hag. But now you know, at least. It’s not worth your time.” Aedan clapped him on the back, and suggested, “Let’s get a drink. You look like you need one.”

Alistair mostly just wanted to be alone after the humiliation and the pain of everything Goldanna had said.

_You killed mother, you did._

_I don’t know you, boy._

_Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me._

_I got less than no use for you._

But he nodded mutely and followed Aedan.

He supposed he should appreciate Cousland’s willingness to hear him out.

He knew already that Aedan was impatient with this whole thing, with the idea that his commoner sister should be so important to him, that they should spend time seeking out a washer-woman instead of scheming to thwart Loghain or working to scrounge up some coin for the ensuing journey back across Ferelden to seek out Genitivi in Haven.

He appreciated Aedan humoring him, being there for emotional support despite thinking he was a fool to look back at his humble origins rather than forward to the throne.

Aedan led him to the Pearl and bought their drinks, but he had little to spend now, and they drank cheap, watered down ale. Alistair was quiet, nursing his drink, and he could feel Aedan’s eyes on him.

“Are you going to be alright?” Cousland asked.

“Sure.”

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

He thought about making a crack against the quality of the ale, but then didn’t say anything. Not even a half-hearted jest could deflect Aedan’s concern. “She’s my only family.”

He stared, glassy-eyed, across the room and out the windows at the bustling market street beyond.

“I know. You know I understand better than most,” Aedan said. “My parents are dead, my brother is likely dead, and my sister is all I’ve got left.”

Alistair shifted uncomfortably, his eyes briefly meeting Aedan’s as he broke his gaze from the street, but he ended up staring into his tankard. A distorted brownish-yellow reflection of his face looked back.

“Don’t squirm like that. You know what you need to do. You and I can help each other, Alistair. We both need family. We could be brothers.”

“Your sister doesn’t want me, Aedan. And I don’t want to force myself on a woman who wants nothing to do with me.”

Aedan’s frown was rigid. “I’m talking about marriage, Alistair. What happens after that, you and Elissa can work out at your own pace. I don’t care. The important part is the spirit of the match, the union between House Cousland and House Theirin.”

“A marriage of convenience,” Alistair said, sourly.

“Yes.” Aedan pounded the table once, then worked visibly to calm himself. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “It’s the best thing for everyone. We’ve lost everyone. You have no family, Alistair. Forget Goldanna.”

“Done,” Alistair said, irritably. He took a drink. “That doesn’t mean I want to be married to a woman who will inevitably despise me. Elissa already looks at me with fear.”

“You’re a good man, Alistair. I wouldn’t trust my sister with anyone I thought might hurt her. I trust you to be good to her.”

“You’re not listening to me. Your sister does not like me, she doesn't want anything to do with me, and we’ll both be miserable if you keep pushing us into this,” Alistair objected, spitting out each word as if Aedan were a particularly slow child who needed an explanation of the basics of human relationships. “Besides, I’ve told you a thousand times, I have no intention of being King. It’s not happening. So you’d just be marrying your sister to a bastard with no name and tainted blood.”

“I don’t believe you. You know that it’s your duty to see that Loghain is removed from power. You’re the only one with a halfway legitimate claim to the throne.”

“Anora.”

“Loghain’s daughter, whose authority he’s clearly already usurped. When is the last time anyone has even seen the Royal Widow?” Aedan scoffed and threw back a gulp of ale, making a face at the unappetizing brew. “No. You know what you need to do. You can either become King or be executed by Loghain if he can get his hands on you.”

“I’m glad we’re having this little talk. Makes me feel so much better.”

“This isn’t about how you feel.” The gloves were well and truly off, now. “I’ve tried to be patient and understanding, Alistair, I really have. I have no idea what it’s like to be a bastard, to be caught halfway between nobility and the common folk, but you get to choose who you become, and there’s one clear choice for you. Claim your heritage and your birthright. Forget the serving maids and washerwomen and focus on the line of Kings that ends with you. Do that or you might as well stay here and drink yourself to death.”

“Wow. You haven’t had nearly enough to drink to be this much of an ass,” Alistair shot back. First Goldanna, now Aedan. Today really was Beat Up Alistair Day.

“I’m trying to help you. Your best and only future is to be King. And you’ll need a Queen. There’s no one better suited than Elissa, and frankly I’d be insulted if you left the Couslands in the dust when you take your throne. You can’t see yourself on that throne right now but I can and I’m looking forward, not backwards, not inwards; upwards.”

“Maybe if Elissa were saying these things to me I’d feel differently but she can’t even look me in the eye or string together full sentences in my presence.”

“Win her over. Woo her. Muster enough self-confidence to use your looks and your charm to make women like you instead of acting like a cockless idiot around them. You’d be surprised how easy it is if you just try.”

Alistair made a face like he’d just bitten into an onion with a rotten core. “Don’t give me advice about women, Aedan.”

“Why not? I’ve been with several, and you’ve been with… oh let’s see, how many was that, again? None?”

“Riiiiiiiight. The whole ‘Alistair is a virgin oh ho ho how funny’ theatre again,” Alistair said with spitting bitterness. He wiped the ale from his lips and went in for the kill. “You love to talk about being the big man around Highever but all I’ve witnessed since we’ve met was you sleeping with Morrigan then being ignored by every woman in camp. I don’t know what she told the others but it must not have been favorable.”

“Fuck off,” Aedan said, sounding more like a commoner than the nobleman’s son he took such pride in being. “I ended things with Morrigan. And I’ve no interest in any of the other women in our company. You have no idea what you’re even talking about.”

“Whatever. Maker, this is stupid. I’m not marrying your sister. That’s the end of it.”

“So it seems.” Aedan glared at him with cold hostility. The jab about Morrigan had been too much.

Alistair looked at his now empty tankard, then pushed it away and got up. “I just want to be alone. Thanks for this… talk. You’re a great friend to have in a time of need.”

“It’s not my fault you won’t listen to sense. If I was the heir to the throne I’d do what I wanted to and damn the consequences.”

“But what exactly is it that you think I _want?”_

Alistair wondered if Aedan truly could not see the gilded cage he meant to construct around him, Aedan had no inkling how miserable it would be for him to be a figurehead on the throne, with a Queen who quivered in disgust whenever he got too near.

“It seems more and more that you just want to die,” Aedan said, looking up at him. “The idea of responsibility scares you more than any darkspawn.”

“You’re wrong. I rather like living.”

“I wouldn’t enjoy being alive if I had your life,” Aedan told him. “You have no one. You have nothing.”

“Thanks for the drink.”

Alistair walked away and didn’t look back.

He strode out into the street, sucking in a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t fresh, though. It stank of dogs and horses and dung, of piss and vomit running in rivulets through the gutters. City smells. He shook his head and wandered off, having no real destination in mind. He just wanted to avoid all his fellow Wardens and the others of their company, in case anyone else wanted to engage him in conversation.

He shuffled aimlessly through the market district, keeping his head down so as not to draw the attention of anyone who might recognize him and try to collect a bounty. Eventually he stopped by the stall of the Orlesian woman, Liselle, the shininess of her wares catching his eye as they glinted in the sun. She sold flowers and scented oils, and jewelry. He stopped to look at it even though he had no lady friend to buy anything for and no money.

There was a silver hairpin shaped like a spider laid out on a square of black velvet, and without even thinking he just stood there and stared at it. Its body was covered in small diamonds that twinkled in the sunlight, and it had rows of yellow gemstone eyes. Finely detailed etching swirled in filigree along its eight legs.

Liselle, noticing his interest, picked up the spider and held it out. “Would monsieur like to look closer?” she asked. “This piece is new, I do not expect to still have it at the end of the day. Something for a lady who appreciates the beauty of nature, no?”

“Sorry, I was just… distracted. I’m not interested in buying anything.”

“Oh? Le petite spider is only 20 silver.”

He thought it looked more valuable than that, but regardless, he didn’t have 20 silver and had no reason to buy it. No reason at all.

“Sorry, no.” He shook his head.

He hated the fact that he could picture the jeweled spider holding back a sweep of Morrigan’s hair from her face, that it would suit her, and that she would love it. She would probably mock him for presuming to give her a gift, or would interrogate him as to his intent behind such a familiar gesture, but the thing itself? It looked as if it had been crafted specifically for her. Her dark hair was what he thought of when he looked at the black velvet gracing the shopkeeper’s display.

Liselle shrugged, placing the trinket carefully back onto the table. “It is as you say.”

He walked away, unsteady, and blamed the drink and the stress for the sudden unwelcome turn of his thoughts. Even if he were in the habit of buying Morrigan gifts, which he wasn’t, he didn’t have the money.

He reached into his pocket, thinking about it, and touched the small smooth runestone he had carried since finding it at the Circle Tower. It wasn’t worth 20 silver, probably, and what madness would cause him to trade one his few possessions for Morrigan, anyway?

Unfortunately, he knew the answer.

He was still thinking about that kiss, halfway on the road between Kinloch Hold and Denerim.

It wasn’t a _real_ kiss. Well, in the most practical sense it had been real enough. Lips touching lips. But it had been a bargain, a favor, a dare for the capricious amusement of the drunken Circle Mages.

There had been far more passion in the kiss that Lythra had given him on Ishal, and look how much that had meant, as it turned out. Nothing. Therefore Morrigan’s kiss was less than nothing. She would roast him thoroughly if he showed up with pretty presents for her after such a meaningless act.

Perhaps the sentimentality of Aedan giving her the golden mirror is what had soured that relationship, and they had done far more than kiss.

But somehow he was back at the Orlesian merchant’s stall, now, holding out the runestone. “Is this a fair trade? For the spider?”

She took the stone, then looked at him sharply for a moment before lowering her eyes. That told him it was actually worth more than the bauble but that she didn’t want to let on.

“I do not know who I could sell this to,” she said. “I do not get mages as customers often.”

“I think you could find a buyer,” he said, itching to get away from the stall. He didn’t care if he was being swindled in that moment, so much did he regret being there. “Do we have a deal?”

She nodded, closing her hand around the runestone.

She gave him the spider in a small black velvet pouch, and he tucked it into his pocket. He was not, of course, going to give this gift to Morrigan. He was merely holding onto it for some future use. Maybe he could bargain with it, if he ever needed something from her.

 _Oh ho and what exactly might you need from Morrigan?_ His own thoughts mocked him as mercilessly as the witch’s barbed tongue.

He was barely aware of himself the rest of the afternoon, meandering around Denerim, lost in his thoughts.

Aedan’s sharp words kept coming back to him, and it made him question why he’d ever thought he could find true love, someday. Maybe if he’d been born a true prince and not a bastard, he’d have more of a chance, but even then his destiny would more likely be to marry whomever would make the best queen for Ferelden, not who would make the best wife for him. As it was, he’d grown up learning to be a Templar, not a Prince or a King, and though Wardens were not forbidden from marrying, there would be little chance for romance during a Blight.

Besides all those practical concerns, he was starting to think people just didn’t like him that much. Aedan thought he was a naive fool, Goldanna hated the very idea of him, Elissa was frightened of him, and Morrigan thought him too stupid to live.

The others barely thought of him at all.

No one loved him. It was likely that no one ever would.

He tried to remove the pity and despair from such a thought and look at it coldly, like it was just a fact of life, not a reason for sadness.

His father had never cared for him, and his brother had thought of him only as a piece on a chess board. Eamon had viewed him as a burden and Isolde thought he was a disgrace. His mother might have despised him during her pregnancy—viewing him only as unwanted, parasitic baggage from an encounter with a man she should never have consorted with.

Alistair wondered if Maric the Saviour had even given her much of a choice in the matter. The thought soured his stomach and made him want to lose the weak ale that sloshed around within. He’d grown up assuming his mother had been star-struck by the King, in love with him the way Ferelden in general seemed to be in love with the heroic figure Maric struck in the national consciousness. But now as a grown man he had to question the innocence of that assumption. Maids probably saw great men in all their humanity, as ugly as that humanity could be, and how could a commoner with no power say _“No”_ to a King?

Even if he could imagine his mother going eagerly to the King’s bed, it was a sad fate that followed, her death a terrible consequence, and his existence so far hardly worth it.

It was why he’d always been so careful. Everyone just assumed he was prudish because of the Chantry, but if that’s all it was he’d have no problems flouting their teachings. He’d hated the cloistered, religious life. But he wasn’t about to risk spreading bastards around Ferelden without thought to what he was doing.

He’d been told after his Joining that Wardens were rendered functionally sterile due to the taint, but even then he had not cut loose. By that time he was so used to being cautious that he had turned shy. He assumed that by twenty most young men had had their first, second, or third encounter with girls. Aedan seemed to certainly have found ample opportunity and he was around the same age as Alistair.

_If I was the heir to the throne I’d do what I wanted to and damn the consequences._

_But what exactly is it that you think I want?_

He shook his head at the memory of Aedan and his opinions. 

But… what _did_ he want? Did he even know? If he could do anything he cared to, right now, without thought of consequence, what would he do? When he emptied his mind what was the one thought that remained?

 _…_ _Morrigan…_

No. Nope. Not a good idea. At all.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? Stop thinking. She didn’t think he had any thoughts in his head, oh the irony of that. Dim-witted empty-headed lummox. But there were always so many thoughts rushing through his head that they got all jumbled up and it was easier to let everyone think he wasn’t thinking at all than to try to explain that there were _too many things_ and they were all tangled up like fishing nets full of hooks.

_Stop._

He thought about giving her the silver hairpin. He thought about her dark hair, swept carelessly away from her face, stay tresses always falling back into her eyes. When she admitted the item was pleasing to her, and asked what he wanted in return, he could slip the pin into place and say, “How about another kiss?”

_Stop._

It was stupid to mope about imagining his hands in Morrigan’s hair. It was the most idiotic way he could be spending his time.

_Stop thinking and be a man of action._

So he walked back to the inn.


	4. Damn the Consequences (Denerim)

It was dusk when Alistair returned to the inn. He was thankful for this small luxury they had been able to afford, and the relative privacy it offered. Though many were sharing rooms for the night, Morrigan had got one all to herself, just like she always pitched her tent at the edge of camp away from the rest.

He knocked on her door, all the while trying to think of something to say. He didn’t want to babble and blather. Morrigan would hate that and slam the door in his face. He always babbled and blurted out increasingly incoherent nonsense when he was nervous or embarrassed and being aware of his own bad habit seldom seemed to help him not to do it.

The door opened. Morrigan had a distracted look on her face as she swung open the door, but when she saw him her eyes widened and her brows lifted with an expression of unguarded surprise, before she schooled her features into something more closed off, indifferent.

“Alistair,” she said, curiosity evident in her tone despite her belated attempt to look unsurprised. “What do you want?”

“You,” he said. Everything he had considered saying to her as he walked across Denerim, through the inn, up the back stairs, and down the hallway to her door escaped him and he was reduced to blurting out that one word like a man speaking a foreign language, armed with a vocabulary of one word.

Morrigan laughed, but it was lacking the usual derision. It was a laugh of pure surprise. He waited for her to say  _ no,  _ slam the door, or possibly inflict a parting curse which would cause his eyeballs to bleed unceasingly. But she just stood there a moment, seemingly waiting for  _ him _ to say something more. How on earth could he elaborate, though?  _ You, me, now, sex. _

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “you are in earnest,” as if his face had done all the talking. And perhaps it had. He’d had no idea what he’d even been doing with his face, so intent on his expectation of her response.

“Very well.”

She reached out and took the front of his shirt in one hand, pulling him inside. He stumbled forward but said nothing, since that seemed to be working quite well so far. She kept one hand at his chest, bunched up in his shirt, and shut the door, pushing him up against the inside once it was closed. But she did nothing else, just held him there, looking him dead in the eye with that arresting golden gaze. He thought he was either about to be killed or kissed, and was prepared to accept either action, but she just continued to  _ stare, _ as if waiting for him to do something else.

_ Take what you want and damn the consequences… _

He took her hand by the wrist and she released his shirt, and he pushed her arm down to her side, then pulled her close until the whole length of her body was pressed up against his. Then he released her arm to encircle his round her waist, resting his hand on the small of her back.

It would not have been so easy, no, it wouldn’t have even been possible, if she had not fallen against him with no resistance. She just looked up into his eyes still, gaze unwavering as if she were an animal watching him for any sign of danger, any hint or twitch in his eyes to let her know she must flee. Seeing none, she was remarkably pliable, so curious as to what exactly he would dare to do that she just waited for it.

He would dare to do a lot; he was prepared to do absolutely everything that she would allow him to do. One didn’t fling oneself into the lair of Morrigan with half-assed intent, just like one didn’t run headfirst at a dragon with any dreams of survival.

Still pressing one hand to her lower back, Alistair snaked his other hand round to hold her between the shoulder blades. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, and he leaned in to kiss her. Her eyes widened and her lips parted and it was not at all like the first time, that stupid kiss for the amusement of Nelmirea and Solomae. He did not back away—he couldn’t even if he had wanted to because the door was firmly behind him—and he did not blurt out something stupid to cut the tension. He just kissed her until he couldn’t breath and pulled back just far enough to turn his head for a better angle before pulling her in again.

Morrigan had given up the limp doll act and seized him by the arms, clutching his shoulders so hard it hurt, each finger bruising into his muscles with a claw-like grip. Her mouth was receptive to his, her body pressing into him so hard the door groaned with the pressure of it.

He lifted his face from hers, using the difference of their height to pull himself up straighter, forcing her to temporarily fall away from him. But she clawed her way up his arms until both fists grabbed his hair and pulled him back towards her, hungrily, and  _ Maker _ he was in it now. There was little illusion as to who was in control, now that she’d gotten over her initial surprise and curiosity, but he’d expect nothing less from this woman, this witch, who had always taken exactly what she’d wanted from those around her.

He slid his hands from her back to her hips, one on each side, and lifted her up, adjusting her against him until his manhood was pressed between her legs. He couldn’t get her exactly where he liked, though, standing with his back against the door, and so he reached up to grab her hands out of his hair, pushing her away far enough so that he could look at her again, and said, “Get on the bed.”

Her eyes flashed momentarily, perhaps angry to be given an order, and he wondered if a “please get on the bed so I can fuck you properly, if that’s what you would like me to do” would have been the safer option. But the flash was not followed by a knee to the groin or an epitaph, rather she shook her arms free of his grip and turned around. The less words used on Morrigan, the better, it seemed. After so many weeks in her company he wondered how much better things would have gone if he’d just realized that sooner.

Morrigan went to the bed, shucking off her ratty skirt and then the trousers she wore underneath. She did this with such remarkable speed that Alistair watched in disbelief for a moment before tugging his shirt free of his britches and getting his arms tangled in the sleeves for one horrifying moment. It seemed even keeping his utterances to a minimum he was going to look like a fool, but she said nothing, just looked over her shoulder briefly as she pulled off her jewelry and rolled her shoulders back, pulling her hooded tunic off over her head.

He kicked off his boots and shed his breeches as fast as he could, eyes on the wondrous sight of her bare backside, the round welcoming ass and long graceful curve of her back. She turned around and gave him a full, unshrouded view of her breasts and her womanhood, placing her hands on her hips in a pose likely meant to say _ta da_ _you lucky bastard._

Her eyes darted to his cock and a smile crooked the side of her mouth. He chose to believe that smirk was one of pleased expectation rather than derision. He’d seen enough of the other young men of the Chanty to know that what he had was not worthy of scorn, so it was not something he dwelled upon. There was a naked woman—a naked  _ Morrigan _ —waiting for him and he moved towards her without hesitation.

She sat down on the bed and leaned back moments before he reached her. He pushed her down onto the mattress and climbed atop her. He’d spent a lot of time in private rehearsal before, thinking about what he’d do with a woman if he ever worked up the nerve to take one, but now he just thought  _ take what you want and damn the consequences  _ again, and with one hand pulled Morrigan’s legs apart.

It was not nearly as difficult as he had imagined it to be, to find where his cock went. She was wet and warm and wide open for him to enter, which he did, and the tightening of her muscles around him pulled him in deeper. She made a noise when he thrust inside her, an unguarded gasp, and he paused, motionless, wondering if he had hurt her or angered her with his haste.

He looked into her eyes and saw dilated pupils. The ring of gold iris was thin and her mouth hung open, tongue curling out over her teeth. She took a few quick panting breaths and licked her lips before she said, “Get on with it, then.”

He kept his eyes on hers as he rutted between her legs, fucking her fast and rough and jerky, taken over by the mindless excitement and lust of the moment.

This was not at all how he had ever fantasized about first encountering a woman. In those lonely teenaged Templar years he had allowed himself the gentlemanly, Chantry-approved fantasy of falling deeply in love with some pretty, pious girl and wedding her in the sight of the Maker, then taking her gently in his arms and kissing her with Andraste’s blessing, while something he dared not think too specifically about happened below the waist. It had been some years since he’d been that naively non-specific in his imaginings, but he’d still clung to the idea of being deeply in love and reverential when he touched that special girl.

Except, of course, for recently, when the girl he thought about bedding was Morrigan, with all her spite and scorn focused upon him. Even then he’d been taken with the horrifying idea of her pinning him down, mounting him like he was a horse, riding him and whipping him with her most pointed barbs, until he burst. He’d hardly dared think about having her underneath him.

It was over far too soon. His estimation of how much time spent in delirious, uncontrolled pleasure he could take before spilling into her was far shorter than he’d hoped. He sagged onto the bed, still half on top of her, and Morrigan made a wordless sound of outrage.

“Is that all?” she said, in disbelief. “I did not expect a great deal of prowess from you but this is an insult,” she lashed out at him, wriggling underneath him to free herself from his weight. “Twas as satisfying as letting a dog hump my leg.”

From any other woman, specifically the sacred true love he’d hoped for once upon a time, that barrage would have crushed his tender, manly feelings. But from Morrigan it made him laugh. Maybe it would be a cruel and excellent joke to have his way with her and leave her completely unsatisfied, a slap in the face for her having let him into her bed just to be utterly disappointing.

“I’m not done,” he said, however, rolling onto his side and looking at her without remorse or fear. “Give me a few moments and I’ll be your eager servant.” He reached over to her and ran a hand across her breasts, feeling a thrill at the way each nipple reacted to his touch, and he kneaded the soft giving flesh of one breast in his palm.

“Oh you certainly will,” she told him, leaning into his hand. “I’ll kill you and resurrect you to use your stiffening corpse if that’s what it takes.”

“Necromancy? That’s creepy even for you, and maybe not the best thing to say if you want me to be nice to you,” he said, so far past caring now that he added, “and you don't have the skills,” and gave her nipple a pinch.

Her breath hitched and she arched her back, but said, “You’ve no idea what I’ve learned from my mother’s grimoire.”

“Please don’t talk about your mother.”

She reached for the hand that wasn’t exploring her breasts and tugged it insistently towards her cunt. “I’d prefer if we don’t speak at all,” she said. “Tis ruining the moment.”

“You have to tell me exactly what you would like,” he said, stubbornly, even as he slid his fingers inside her and explored her folds, the length of her slick crack, which was wet not only with her lubrication but his cum as well. “I’m a complete idiot, you know.”

“Shut up,” she hissed. He felt her twitch and contract around his fingers, and she guided his hand with her own, her eyes fluttering shut and her lips parting in a concentrated expression.

She was beautiful, he thought. Really. He’d always stared at her far too much, he knew, and it was gratifying to have her there now, so completely naked and warm against him, her breasts and thighs and warm deep womanhood gliding beneath his fingers while his eyes drank in the sight of her face, knowing the eyelashes splayed against her cheeks and the soft O of her mouth was in response to his touch. She was moving his hand in the rhythm she wanted, but he didn’t much mind at that moment being used as a masturbatory tool.

He would be hard again soon, this he knew well enough, for though he hadn’t had the pleasure of a partner until now, he’d spent time enough thinking about it and touching himself. This was a vice the Chantry explicitly forbade their templars, but every young initiate had found an opportunity to do it, anyway. Some were bold and shameless enough to lay in their bunks and merrily go at themselves while others tried to sleep, but he’d always preferred to find a secluded place to hide and do his business in private. The Grey Warden camp had afforded less privacy and idle time, but far more fodder for the imagination, and he’d found that since his Joining he could finish himself off and then bring himself back to a full salute in no time at all.

Eventually Morrigan let go of his hand, evidently trusting that he’d gotten the idea, and she ran her hand along his body, fingers gliding over skin and hair until she dug her fingernails into his ass, making him catch his breath a little in pain. But it was a good sort of pain… the kind to wake him up and make him squeeze her breast hard with his own hand. He almost leaned in to kiss her, but he wanted to look at her more. Her breath quickened and he felt her clench around his fingers with more urgency. He just stared into her face, watching her expression as she came, listening intently to the sounds she made, committing it to memory since he was certain this was the first and last time he’d ever have a chance to spend with her.

She cried out and he remembered the sound of it from the night she had spent with Aedan. The whole camp had heard her crying out under the ministrations of young Lord Cousland. He could have grown jealous remembering that others had done this before him, and probably done it better, but that would be a foolish and petty thing to ruin the moment with.

There was never going to be some perfect love of his life. There was not going to be a chaste young maiden like the Chanty taunt him to hope for. He could have had Elissa Cousland, offered up to him on a platter by her brother, in all her virginal innocence, but he’d turned that down for this. This witch who hated him and would dance on his pyre before lighting it, if the time came for that. (And it almost certainly would; he could feel the inevitability of his impending death more and more every day.)

He rolled away from her and pulled himself up to a sitting position, back against the shoddy wooden headboard. The bed creaked when they moved, providing a rickety song for their lovemaking. No… correction: their loveless fucking.

When everyone had turned out their pockets they’d had enough coin for a very cheap inn. If there had been one or two of them they’d have been able to afford the finest hotel in all of Denerim, something visiting Orlesians might have frequented in the days of the occupation, but there were too many of them to afford anything better than this dump. It was better than camp and it was fitting for what he and Morrigan were doing.

“Come here, wench,” he said. She had fallen back onto the mattress and shut her eyes, but they flew open at that.

“Do not call me that,” she objected, golden eyes flashing, but when she saw how he was waiting for her, she crawled over to him and swung one leg over his, seating herself astride him and drawing close to his face with her own. “Tis true, then,” she observed, “what they say about Grey Warden stamina.”

“They?”

She didn’t elaborate, instead she kissed him, pressing herself against him and stroking his erect shaft in one hand. Her fingers danced over the most sensitive parts as she ran her tongue across his lip and into his mouth. There was no questioning whether or not Morrigan had done this before, and he was thankful for it. She teased him for what felt like forever, kissing him and touching him but refusing to take him back inside her. When he tried to maneuver his way to holding her she seized both hands by the wrists and lifted his arms above his head, pinning him to the headboard. He slid down until he was no longer sitting up. Now he lay on his back, and Morrigan shifted her weight on top of him till her cunt was sliding along his cock, back and forth, back and forth, pinning him painfully against his own stomach.

“You won’t come again until I tell you that you may,” she said, looking down at him, her hands still gripping his wrists like manacles. Her hair was a mess, come undone from her bun and hanging around her face in half released disarray, and the dark makeup around her eyes and mouth was smudged. She looked like a wild, dangerous thing smiling down at him; a desire demon come to devour his soul.

She let go and straightened up, drawing him into her, and then she rode him like she was riding a horse she wished to push until she drove it into the ground. As soon as his hands were free Alistair reached up to undo the last section of hair still clinging to the tie that held it back, till it all fell loose around her shoulders. He ran his fingers through the dark waves, brushing it back from her face, and almost unthinking moved his hands down to her long, beautiful neck. He did not squeeze, just let them hover there, feeling her swallow under his thumbs.

He felt Morrigan tense, stopping her movement against him, felt the hesitation and fight-or-flight reaction run through her whole body.

Suddenly the darkness of what he was doing caught up to him and he pulled his hands back, flattening them against the bed. No, this wasn’t him. The idea of hurting a woman he was bedding sickened him, even if it was Morrigan. He could never do something like that. Not even as a fantasy.

When he drew back she looked at him curiously, and with only a moment’s hesitation she took one hand and pulled it back up, guiding his hand around her neck as she had guided it into her cunt. She left it there and stroked his arm, resuming the cadence of her hips on top of him, though slower now, more languid and measured. She took his other hand and placed it over one breast, trying to coax him back into teasing at her nipple.

He kept his fingers loose around her neck, too spooked by the idea of hurting her to take any pleasure in her willingness to put her throat in his hand.

“You needn’t be coy, Alistair,” she said, and he felt the vibration of her words as she spoke. “How many times have you dreamt of throttling me, I wonder?”

He didn’t respond, and she moved his other hand back up to her throat. “There,” she said, resting her own hands lightly upon his forearms. “Go ahead. Choke me.”

“No. I don’t want to.”

“No lying, you’ll spoil the game,” she chided. “Come now. Do it, my eager servant.”

He squeezed, just a little, and she quickened the movement of her hips, purring, “Mmmmm yes,” into his hands. “Keep going.”

He increased the pressure a bit more and the more he did the happier it seemed to make her. Andraste’s flaming sword, but this woman was perverse. She leaned into his fingers and closed her eyes.

Morrigan came a second time, with his hands round her neck, and he released her. There were red spots on her throat and he felt a moment of trepidation that everyone would see bruises there tomorrow and ask Morrigan who had nearly strangled her the night before… until he realized she could just heal herself with magic and continue to maintain that pristine, blemish free porcelain skin.

Morrigan got off of him, a terribly smug smile on her face, which he knew with some gratification was due to her having ridden his cock to her satisfaction. “You have my permission to finish yourself off,” she said, her grin positively evil.

He sat up and looked at her, lounging there like a happy cat, and said, “I want to mount you like a hound takes a bitch, Morrigan, what do you think of that?”

He’d never talk to his non-existent true love like that. Never. He’d caress her softly and whisper in her ear that she was a shining star, beautiful and good in a world full of perversity and darkness. Like the flower he’d found in Lothering and carried with him until it had wilted and died, like everything wilted and died in a Blight… all his naive fantasies about love and family and belonging.

Morrigan tossed her unbound hair and looked at him with fake outrage for a moment, before turning over and showing him her backside, arching her back till her bottom pointed upwards exactly like a mabari bitch in heat. “Take me then, my prince.”

The word  _ prince _ almost put him off it entirely. Almost. He just decided to punish her for that taunt. And he did, fucking her hard and fast and mercilessly until she was crying out into one of the thin shabby pillows. He only relented when he was too exhausted to continue, letting himself come just before his legs gave out. Then he lay back on the bed and shut his eyes, thinking to rest for a moment before leaving, lest Morrigan get the satisfaction of kicking him out.

He only realized that he’d fallen asleep when he started dreaming of darkspawn, and the archdemon. The dragon swung its head towards him and roared and he awoke with a jerk, realizing that he was cold and naked on top the covers. Morrigan was beside him, the only warmth left. She had pressed herself up against him and fallen asleep with her head at an awkward angle against his shoulder. He didn’t want to wake her, but her warmth was not enough to alleviate the chill that had overtaken the rest of him, so there was no hope of falling back asleep.

He carefully, gently moved to the side, trying to peel himself away from her without waking her, but it was to no avail. As soon as he sat up her eyes opened, and she blinked at him sleepily. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and winced as his feet touched the icy cold floorboards.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I should leave.”

“No, you should not.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “I…”

She shivered and sat up, twisting to pull the blankets back. “Come,” she said, tone brooking no disagreement, “I am cold and I wish very much to be warm again. Blow out the candle and hold me.” She caught his eye and added, “Idiot.”

He extinguished the candle with a pinch of his fingers, relishing the momentary burn before it was quenched and the room fell into darkness. He crawled under the covers and Morrigan curled herself around him, nestling into his chest and uttering a sigh of contentment. He obediently wrapped his arms around her and let her tangle her legs up with his, though her feet were shockingly cold where she pressed them against his calves.

He felt something dangerously like happiness creep into his heart as he lay very still, listening to the deepening of her breath as she fell back into sleep.  _ Don’t be sentimental, _ he told himself, very sternly,  _ Don’t be a fool. _

* * *

In the morning light he awoke and she was still there, though she had rolled away from him in sleep, and her face was turned away. Her dark hair was splayed out on the pillow, and he could see the full length of her neck, and the bruises he had left there. With the hazy Denerim sun shining down on them he felt shame, not for defying all the Chantry’s teachings, but for hurting her. He didn’t like this game, he thought, allowing himself to feel the sadness he had pushed down viciously the evening before. He wanted someone to be soft and sweet and gentle with. Not to act out some repressed mage-hunter and apostate rape fantasy.

There’d been an initiate at the monastery who liked to write such things down and secretly pass them around for the others to read. Brother Carlise. He’d been found out and was made to recite the Chant of Light in its entirety three times before he was allowed to say another word. It had taken three months to get through that penance. Despite the horror the Sisters expressed at finding out about the smut, there had been quite an appetite for such forbidden tracts among the templar initiates, and Alistair had read one out of curiosity, though it had made him sick. That wasn’t him.  _ This _ wasn’t him.

Morrigan awoke, turning her head and catching him staring. He looked away.

He heard the rustle of movement as she yawned and sat up. He looked back in time to see the blankets fall away from her breasts and pool in her lap as she stretched. That sight awoke feelings the opposite from regret, and without thinking he reached out and brushed her hair back behind her ear and leaned forward to kiss her. She turned her face to him but then slapped him away and said, “You have the breath of a blighted toad.”

He backed off, wordlessly, and she slid out of bed. He watched her walk over to the small table and mirror by the window. She broke the ice on the water in the washbasin and splashed it on herself with a shudder, and he enjoyed watching this morning theater too much to move. She muttered a spell over the water and he saw steam rising from the bowl, then she proceeded to clean herself with a dampened cloth. She paused to look at herself in the mirror—a tiny, clouded thing—before she walked over and pulled something from her pack. It was the golden hand mirror Cousland had given her, as a gift, and Alistair felt a stir of jealousy and a pang of regret.

He’d never given Morrigan her gift. He’d given her bruises, which she was now inspecting in the reflection of her hand mirror. The spider pin was still in its velvet pouch, forgotten in the pocket of his discarded trousers.

With another murmured spell and a glow of magic around her neck, her skin was pristine again. He wondered if the wound was gone entirely, or just hidden, but then realized that was a stupid thought. How many times had Morrigan or one of the other mages worked healing magic on him when he’d taken blows that should have been fatal, and would have been, if not for their presence? Magic knit the body back together with astounding efficacy. It was a wonder that mages specializing in healing were not stationed every five miles throughout Thedas so that no one ever had to suffer an unexpected death. There would be, he thought, if it weren’t for those pesky demons.

“You cannot laze about in bed all morning, Alistair,” Morrigan said, interrupting his reverie, and he realized he’d just been sitting up staring at her dreamily while she bathed and groomed and began to dress herself. “We must be on the road before the others abandon us to our folly.”

He got up and pulled the bedpan out from underneath the bed, needing to empty his bladder. His piss splashed loudly against the porcelain and he wondered if Morrigan thought him uncouth to do this in front of her, or if she would brush it off as something her precious woodland animals did without shame, saying it was the Chantry that taught humans to be ashamed of their bodily functions, et cetera et cetera. He’d never quite gotten the hang of anticipating what she found offensive and what she considered the odd niceties of a too tame civilization. Maker knows all of them did their business on the edge of camp not far from each other, but there was something much more private about a nice leafy bush than this tiny, intimate inn room.

Morrigan didn’t say anything, and he got dressed in silence, only shooting furtive glances at her. He saw her brushing her hair out with a fancy silver brush, and he wondered if that were another gift from Aedan or something she had found for herself. He finished dressing, after needing to search around a bit for one of his boots that he’d kicked off a little too enthusiastically the night before. Then he emptied the piss pot out the window onto the street, as was only polite.

He stuck one hand in his pocket and felt the shape of the silver spider. He could give it to her now… but he didn’t. It seemed either too romantic or too crass, and he couldn’t pinpoint why. Her hands were in that beautiful dark hair right now, fastening it into a bun to keep it off her neck and (mostly) out of her face, and it seemed too perfect an opening to be quite real.

He still was a coward in the light of day, even if he was no longer a virgin.

He did not know what else to do, then, besides awkwardly take his leave, so he moved towards the door to go, as if they had been doing nothing in that room together besides discussing the best way to season the campstew.

“You are not unpleasant in bed,” said Morrigan when his hand was turning the door knob. “Though you have much to learn.” He stopped. “You ought to practice more often.”

“I suppose you are offering to be my private tutor?” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he gave them any thought. He dared to look back at her.

She tilted her head to the side, working some womanly magic that kept her hair in place. Then she turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “If tis a tutor you are after, you might flirt with Wynne more often, and see where that leads you. I am not too proud to allow that as a woman of advanced years this is one arena she may have more experience and knowledge than I.”

“Maker’s breath,” he swore, and opened the door, making his exit.


	5. Negotiations (The West Road)

They struck out early, after a small breakfast provided by the inn. There was a large cast iron pot full of porridge hanging over the fire and every paying guest was entitled to a bowl. They stopped at a market stall on their way out of the city, buying fresh baked baked, wheels of hard cheese, and heavily salted cured meat with the last of their coin.

Then they set off, hiking along the West Road, and Alistair was alone with his thoughts, Barkspawn jogging along beside him, the others engaged in conversation around him. Morrigan, for her part, chose to transform into a bird and fly high above them. He couldn’t remember the last time she had done that, as it drained her mana and might leave her at a disadvantage should they meet bandits, assassins, or darkspawn on the road. There was little she could do as a raven besides watch the rest of them die, and perhaps pluck out the eyes of an enemy or two.

They made good time. The weather was fair and no one sensed any darkspawn nearby. They stopped for a break around midday, breaking out the rations they had purchased before leaving the city. Alistair lowered himself onto a fallen tree by the side of the road and absently scratched Barkspawn behind the ears with one hand, using the other to eat his food. He fed bits of sausage to the mabari.

He scanned the group for Morrigan, wondering if she would deign to return to human form, and he caught sight of her sitting cross-legged on the ground a few meters away from everyone else. She leaned her back up against the remnants of a crumbling stone wall and had her eyes closed, meditatively. He knew she was trying to regain the energy that her morning shapeshifting had drained from her, and wondered again why she wasted it.

“You have been so quiet,” Leliana said, coming to sit next to him on his fallen tree.

“Have I?” He feigned ignorance.

“Yes. And you weren’t at supper yesterday. The inn served us goose and dumpling soup. I thought you were looking forward to a hot meal that you did not have to cook yourself.”

“I had some business to attend to,” he said, purposefully vague.

Leliana just watched him with those searching blue eyes for a moment. Clearly she expected him to elaborate, to spill his guts to her and say what had made him take off on his own the day before. He had been half expecting Aedan, Korren, and Zevran to question him at some point about why he had not slept in the room they had been meant to share. His pack, his gear and his armour had all been stashed in that room so surely his absence must have been noted.

There wasn’t a soul in their company that didn’t enjoy gossiping about each other’s behavior, noting any irregularity, especially if there was the suggestion of sex involved. He had been fully prepared for one of the others to ask whose room he’d slept in, or more to point, whose bed. So far that hadn’t happened, except that now Leliana was trying to pry something out of him.

He couldn’t help but glance again at Morrigan. She was watching them now, eyes narrowed, mouth turned downwards, and he was sure there was fear in her frown. She was afraid that he was bragging to Leliana about having bedded her.

“I visited my sister,” he told Leliana, though he hadn’t meant to talk to anyone about that. Not after what Aedan had said.

“Oh? That’s wonderful!” she chirped, until she noticed his expression; a sour grimace. “Or… perhaps not…?”

“I’ve had pleasanter encounters with darkspawn,” he said.

“Oh dear. I am sorry.”

An awkward silence hung between them. He felt a little bad for not elaborating. Leliana was good-hearted, and if anyone among them was genuine, it would be her. Odd that he should feel that way about an Orlesian trained Bard, who probably wanted juicy bits of gossip to pass around the campfires later, but he still felt that she meant it kindly. He’d been uncommonly silent and reserved all day and she was the first to express any interest in his well-being.

“She blames me,” he said, finally, “for our mother’s death. I should have expected that. I was foolish to think she’d be happy to meet me.”

“You were not foolish. Just hopeful. You expect others to be as willing to love as you are, but many are too closed off to be open to new people, to new friends, and cannot think of a stranger as family.”

“Aedan put it a different way,” he said, with a snort. “But thanks. I guess. She asked me for money but I didn’t have any to give her, so she said I was worse than useless.”

“I’m sorry. But you know that isn’t true.”

“It’s fine Leliana. You don’t need to soothe my ego,” he said. “She was right. I can’t do anything for her, so what was the point of showing up on her doorstep unannounced? I’ve gotten so used to us barging into places waving the Grey Warden treaties around that I forgot no one gives a damn, unless we can do something for them. And there’s nothing in those treaties which says that long lost family need behave the way we imagined them.”

He quieted, regretting the bitter word vomit. He shook his head. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

She patted his arm. “Sometimes family is more, and less, than blood. We are all like a family. Didn’t you say the Grey Wardens felt like the place you belonged?”

He had said that, once upon a time. But he kept quiet. Leliana had not been there with him when he’d been caught in the demon’s trap at Kinloch Hold, when he had imagined himself living a quiet life with Goldanna and her children. He’d yet to meet his half-sister or her children, then, but he remembered clearly the utter contentment he had felt, the way his mind had dug in and burrowed into the demon’s trap like a nest, how fast he had embraced the idea of leaving it all behind. “The Grey Wardens don’t make me happy. This does,” he had told Solomae stubbornly, even as she tried to make him see the blatant lies that surrounded him.

Back in the present, Duran Aeducan said, “Alright, we’re burning daylight,” loudly, attempting to roust them from their rest. The dwarf was met by groans. He smiled a big toothy smile, perfect gravestones lined up shining bright against the deep red of his braided beard. Duran loved saying “we’re burning daylight,” with the fervor of one who had never seen daylight until a few months ago.

Leliana stood up. “You should not hang back and be so quiet,” she said. “The only way to dispel these negative thoughts is to talk and laugh and share stories as we walk.” She lingered a moment, the invitation to get up and walk by her side clear, but he just smiled and shook his head.

“Go on, I’ll catch up.”

She nodded and left. He remained seated for a little bit, watching as the others gathered their things and, protesting or in silence, followed after Aeducan. Cousland, for a change, did not seem to be eager to challenge the dwarf’s authority.

Alistair felt the weight of Aedan’s lingering disapproval. They hadn’t spoken since yesterday, since they had argued over Elissa, and Alistair didn’t feel like trying to strike up a conversation with his friend.

Was Aedan his friend? That thought troubled him. Aedan had reacted so negatively to Alistair’s blatant refusals to go along with his plans that Alistair was certain Lord Cousland had never seen anything worthwhile in him besides his blood and the power that being in proximity to the last Theirin could grant him.

Alistair watched Morrigan, who remained unmoving as the others moved around her. He had felt her eyes on him the entire time he spoke with Leliana, and now he felt he must put her mind at ease lest she imagine things about their conversation and grow angrier and angrier with him as the day went by. He finally stood up when it seemed that the group would be moved far enough past her, and he slowly made his way towards her, Barkspawn prancing at his heels.

“Go on,” Alistair waved the hound off, “go scout ahead for us.”

Barkspawn yipped in agreement and trotted away down the road, catching up with the others. He nipped at Calenhad as he ran past Aedan, and the two hounds frolicked and play-fought for a moment before Aedan scolded them loudly, and Calenhad fell back in line beside his master.

Alistair stopped besides Morrigan and waited there a moment. She did not open her eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“We’re leaving.”

“So it would seem.”

“Are you coming?”

She opened her eyes. “Why the concern?”

“Flying all morning must take a lot of energy.”

“Are you curious about shapeshifting, now? I could not compel Solomae to get the hang of it. I doubt you will be any more adept.” She stood up, brushing grass off her skirt and pants, then rubbed her palms together, all business.

“I wasn’t telling Leliana about us, if that’s why you were glaring at me,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly. There was something dangerous in her eyes. “Oh? Tis a secret, then?”

“Isn’t that what you’d prefer? I mean… the teasing… and the gossip… the fake concern… they would be merciless.”

“I do recall,” she said. “You are not the first man of our company I have taken to bed.”

“Right. So, you know. I figured you didn’t want another round of that.”

“How gentlemanly of you.” There was sarcasm thick in her voice. Or was that just Morrigan, being Morrigan? Either way, he could only frown in suspicion.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Whatever for?”

He shrugged. She had seemed happy enough, teasing, when he left her room that morning. Something had soured her on him over the course of the day’s travels, and he might have thought it was someone making comments to her about having seen or heard too much last night, except that she had been a raven all morning. Maybe she had just spent too much time on introspection and remembered how much she despised him.

“I suppose,” she said, archly, “that now you are emboldened by perceived success, you intend to careen from bedroll to bedroll. Do not let me stop you. I would not dream of it. I can see why you might start with the little bard, she is pretty in a simpering way. But you could take my suggestion and go to Wynne, first, then work your way younger.”

“Um… what?”

She turned from him and began to walk along the road. The others were far enough ahead of them to be out of easy earshot, but all she said was, “Tis of no consequence to me.”

He fell into step beside her, and said, “Oh really, because you sound jealous.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I know. Crazy. But it’s a big leap to get from seeing me talking to Leliana—as I have hundreds of times before—to imagining me… careening from—”

“I merely want you to understand that you are under no obligation to honor our one night together as if it carried any meaning,” she said quickly. “I know that you harbor quaint ideals when it comes to that sort of thing. I wish to nip any such misconceptions in the bud.”

He laughed, and Natia Brosca glanced back at them. He had been too loud, too brash. Morrigan sniffed and looked away. Natia turned her back to them again.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have knocked on your door if I was looking for love and faithfulness,” he said.

She was silent for several long moments, and he thought her shoulders tensed, but then she relaxed, and merely said, “You are suddenly quite cynical. I do not complain. Tis refreshing. But what brought this on?”

“Everything.”

“You felt a sudden, urgent need to toss aside the virginity you have been so vocal about, and thought I would be a good vessel for clumsy beginnings?”

“Vocal? I told one person. It’s not my fault half of Thedas started singing songs about it after that.” The rest of what she had said slowly caught up to him and he added, “Was I that clumsy?”

“What do you think?”

His face was burning, and he looked away from her frank stare. Perhaps going to Morrigan for his first time had indeed been a bad choice.

“You said I was… ‘not unpleasant’…”

“I did say that.” There was no ire in her voice now, and he relaxed slightly.

“I’ve never had any designs on Leliana,” he said. “I’m not sure she even likes, you know…” he motioned to himself.

“You? I was under the impression you two got on well. You have so much in common, what with your great love of the Chantry and all.”

He knew she couldn’t possibly be serious, but instead of objecting to this insinuation of piety, he simply said, “Men.”

Morrigan raised her eyebrows but made no response.

“Look, you don’t have to worry about me getting the wrong ideas. I get it now. There’s no love for me in this blighted world. I’ve stopped holding out hope that anyone special is going to come along before I… before I die. I’m taking what I can get. Is that a problem?”

She looked at him with such curious wonder that he felt uncomfortable under her gaze in a way he never had before. She was really  _ looking  _ at him now, and it felt horrible to be so fully perceived.

“So I  _ am _ to be the first stop on Alistair's tour of carnal discovery,” she stated, twisting her mouth in… what? Derision? Amusement? Disdain? He could not help but think about how he had covered that mouth in kisses the night before, and had to shake away the memory.

“My, my. Do wonders never cease…?” she went on, eyes dancing.

“No! No. I… I mean I wasn’t thinking past last night.”

“That, I can believe.”

“We’ve been traveling around with these people for months now,” he said, waving a hand at the group, who were continuing to outpace him. “I think we all know how everyone feels about everyone else, at this point.”

It occurred to him that they had been hanging back, keeping pace with each other in private conversation, for enough time that the gossip mill would begin to turn, grinding assumptions into a fine flour of judgement.

“Oh, indeed. No one is capable of surprising anyone at this point.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“How quick of you to catch on. I have done little else since we left the Wilds.”

Teasing? Is that what she called all the insults and digs at his intelligence? He bit back a response about her needing to learn how to live among people, because it seemed pointless now to argue. Perhaps he really was an idiot and an ass to not recognize what Morrigan considered to be flirtation.

Frankly he wasn’t even sure what was going on now. She claimed not to care at all about what he did from now on, but her jealously over him merely speaking with Leliana was palpable. Probably not the best way to start out a relationship. A relationship! With Morrigan! Of all the strange thoughts.

“You are thinking so hard that I see the pain tis causing you,” she said, archly, breaking the silence. It wasn’t like Morrigan to be the one to feel the need to fill the silence, that was usually his thing. “I see that you will have difficulty getting there on your own, so let me speak plainly. I will not be upset in the slightest if you have no interest in repeating last night, but if you do wish to share my bed again, I have rules.”

“I see.”

“One, as I mentioned, is that you lay aside sentimental delusions of love, which I know you are prone to despite your protestations to the contrary. I despise such weakness. And let me be excruciatingly clear in this regard; love  _ is _ a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death.”

“Ah. So, no poetry then? I’ll have to scrap the verse I was working on…”

She ignored the jest and went on, with a pointed look, “Second, you will keep your unamusing remarks about such things as apostasy and my mother to a minimum.

“Third, though I am not given to sentiment, neither will I be where I am not valued, and I certainly will not compete. You will have a care how you behave towards the other women of our company. It seems hardly fitting for you to dote upon others or gaze longingly at them while frequenting my bed, does it?”

“Do you think that I do that now?”

“Yes.”

He just laughed, a little too embarrassed and irritated to respond. He was also very confused.

“Alistair, I am not a fool, and I do not sleep as deeply as you believe. You have been lovesick over our Dalish friend for a long time now. The fact that she kissed you and then rejected you weighs heavily upon you. The others may not know, but I do.”

Ah. So she hadn’t been truly sleeping that night in the Wilds when he confronted Lythra about her desperate kiss atop the Tower of Ishal. He  _ had _ wondered, though he’d thought Morrigan would show less restraint when it came to tormenting him with that knowledge.

“So this isn’t really about Leliana,” he said, because he couldn’t bring himself to deny what she’d said about Lythra. He had tried to get past that rejection, truly, but Morrigan was far too insightful. He wished she was not.

“On the contrary, I believe that if our resident religious fanatic showed an interest in you beyond the ‘sweetheart’ act she parades for the benefit of all, you would be eager to go to her for comfort and consolation. Do let me stand in your way, if you find yourself drawn to her, but do me the courtesy of being honest about it. Tis all I ask, truly.”

“Leliana is a friend but I don’t think I’m nearly devoted enough to blessed Andraste to get myself into all that,” he said. “She’s chosen by the Maker, remember? How could I compete?”

“How, indeed.”

There was something so very disingenuous about Morrigan’s repeated offer to step that made him want to do something to put her mind at ease. Maybe he was foolish to think she actually cared about this beyond a sense of pride, but it did seem like she wanted a declaration of faithfulness, which he’d never have expected from her.

“Have no worries. I’ll obey your rules, Morrigan. I’m so glad we can negotiate.” He stopped just short of commenting on the depressing lack of romance involved in hashing it out like this, because that would probably stray too close to breaking rule number one, even if he meant it in jest. So he just asked, “Do I get to make any rules?”

“If you must.”

“It would be nice if you didn’t call me stupid all the time.”

“All the time? Does this mean I am allowed some indulgence? Perhaps two ‘idiots’ a day and one ‘dunderhead’ if I am a very good girl?”

“I would allow an ‘imbecile’ if you said it just the right way.” He wiggled his eyebrows and was gratified to see her fighting a smile. “But seriously, though, you go on about it a little too much. I would settle for half the insults in a given day.”

“Twill be most difficult for me to curb my shrill tongue,” she said, “but if that is your only request I can hardly refuse.”

“I might have more requests later. I haven’t spent the morning making a list of demands, so I’ll need some extra time to work on it.”

“Oh dear. I cannot guarantee that I will agree to satisfy all your most torrid fantasies, but you have my curiosity piqued, nonetheless.”

He blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“A pity.”

Evidently, she was satisfied enough with the conversation to decide that it was over, for she then transformed into a raven and flew away. He watched her go, until she caught up with Lythra and with a  _ poof _ became a woman again. Alistair could only wonder what she was going to speak with Lythra about, and hoped fervently that it wasn’t him.

He was quite far back from the rest and could not do a neat magic trick to catch up, so he just jogged up the path to rejoin the group. Despite a few curious glances, no one said anything to him about what he and Morrigan had been conspiring about, and Aedan pointedly said nothing to him at all.


	6. Give Me Mercy No More (The West Road)

They stopped for the night several hours later, striking camp on a high plateau that overlooked the Southron Hills and the vast stretch of forest beyond. The tops of the trees undulated in the evening breeze, like a green ocean, nothing but the vast Brecilian as far as the eye could see. Some of the trees were turning already, and patches of the ocean were becoming islands of red and gold.

The last time Alistair had been camped out along the West Road like this had been in the spring, when he and Duncan and the other Grey Wardens had traveled from Denerim to Ostagar, months ago when the Blight was just a fear, and many still dismissed the growing darkspawn presence in the Wilds as an anomaly.

He had been the junior warden, only having seniority on Daveth and Korren Tabris, the two recruits picked up in Denerim beforehand. Barely six months had passed since his own joining.

They had turned from the Imperial Highway at South Reach, and then Duncan had detoured alone into the Brecilian Forest, looking for the clan led by Keeper Marethari, and they’d waited on his return for days. Duncan brought Lythra Mahariel back with him, and she’d been sad and angry, but Alistair had been drawn to her nonetheless. Or perhaps he’d been drawn to her  _ because _ of her sadness. Finding ways to make her smile had been a challenge, but a worthy one.

Best not to think about that, though. She’d said plainly enough that she could never care for a human man, not in the way he’d hoped, at least, and he had to respect that.

That night in camp was much like any other. Leliana played her lute for those seated around the fire eating rabbit stew, and there was idle chatter, snatches of conversation, but mostly they were tired from a long day of travel. The road had been clear, no battles to fight, which was a mercy, but to make good time they had kept up a punishing pace.

Lythra had hunted in the evening and brought back a brace of hares, which she skinned and offered up for the soup pot. Besides the rabbit there were some root vegetables and herbs scavenged from the road, but it was still meager fare. The bread and cheese they’d bought in Denerim was gone, eaten at lunch, and they probably would not have something that good again until they reached Redcliffe.

Morrigan, typically, pitched her tent far away from the rest and kept her own little fire. Alistair felt somewhat conspicuous getting up and taking a bowl of stew to her, but mercifully the others seemed mostly absorbed in their own business. Barkspawn trotted along beside him, and when he approached Morrigan he saw that she was once again reading the book from the Circle of Magi.

When he offered her the stew she said, “For me? What kindness.”

“Not how people usually describe my cooking, but sure. You’ve been too engrossed in that book to come get some yourself, so I thought…”

“Tis true, I cannot tear myself away from Flemeth’s grimoire. The more I study it the more I feel I am only scraping the surface of understanding.”

He settled down across the fire from her and picked at his own bowl of rabbit and turnip. Barkspawn laid down with a whump and snuggled up against his leg. It occurred to him that things could get awkward if the hound sat outside Morrigan’s tent whining should he try to spend the night there. Both hounds had been confined to the inn’s stables the night before.

“So what’s in the book that’s so fascinating? Or is it something only mages can understand?”

She set the book aside and peered at the bowl a moment before scooping up a spoonful and tasting it. He realized that he’d left himself wide open for a jab about his intelligence or templar past, but apparently she had taken their agreement to heart and said nothing of the sort.

“I have found some alarming things, which I dare not believe, but… no. I cannot be sure.”

“Maybe your mother can help. It’s her book, right?”

“Tis the very problem. I find what I read about my mother most disturbing.”

“Let me guess. She drinks blood? Eats children?”

“You think yourself funny, but you are not so very far from the truth. I fear my mother has terrible plans for me.”

“Oh?”

She told him, reluctantly, what she suspected about Flemeth from reading the grimoire. How she lived so long by possessing a string of daughters, her soul passing from body to body, her magic obliterating the individual person each woman had once been.

“Go on then, you may gloat now. It seems I am little more to her than a tool to remain forever young. The training I received all my life was only to prepare me to be a suitable vessel.”

“I’m not going to gloat about that. I mean, your mother… well you don’t need me to say anything, really, do you? I’m sorry. At least you’re free of her.”

“Do you think that? She sent me on this journey, I have little doubt that she expects to have me back by the end of it. She would not send me away if it meant forever, not if this is what she has planned all along.” Morrigan ate her stew in between sentences, gazing into her bowl or at the fire instead of looking at him.

“It does seem strange that she would send you away at all.” He remembered how Flemeth had said she was giving them the one thing she valued above all else. He’d just assumed she’d meant it like any mother proud of her daughter, but if rang far more sinister now.

“The danger of the Blight may have forced it, as she said. Or she simply wants me to grow more skilled in my magic by leaving the Wilds. She has a task for—” she stopped abruptly and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, then shook her head. “Whatever it is, I am not ‘free’ of her. I shall only be free if she is dead.”

He swallowed, though the rabbit nearly stuck in his throat. “What?”

“I have been turning it over in my head for days now. She must die or I will feel hunted for the rest of my life. I cannot go on always looking behind my back, worrying that she will come to claim what she considers her right.” She was speaking to him without looking at him again, and it was hard to understand her intentions in telling him all this.

“Are you… leaving?”

Morrigan huffed, clearly impatient with him. “I cannot kill her myself. She is far too cunning for that. Tis likely that she would merely possess me on the spot. No, I must be far away when her soul leaves her current body. I cannot take the risk.”

He set his bowl down by the edge of the fire. “So is this the part where you ask me to do it?”

Her eyes met his over the flames, and there was surprise in them. “I would not… this is not a request I thought to make of you. I do not think you would survive such an attempt, Alistair. But I suppose you think I have seduced you for this purpose? Of course you do.”

“No, I just thought that’s where the conversation was going. Who else would be idiotic enough to try killing the Witch of the Wilds, right? Me being the resident sort-of templar, and all.”

She shook her head, utterly unamused. “You asked what was in the book, I have answered. But I ask nothing from you. I do not expect you to throw yourself into harm’s way on my account. You have a Blight to stop and my problems are not yours simply because we have an arrangement.”

He nodded, thoughtfully, as if in agreement, but said, “I’ll do it.”

Her lips turned down in a sour frown. “You are not listening to me. I do not wish you to do anything.”

“You don’t want to ask me to do it, but you want it done. I get it. See? Not stupid after all.”

“My mother will devour you and laugh while she does so.”

“Well I won’t go alone. I’m sure I can get a few people together.” He waved towards the rest of the camp. “Look at them. Any one of them would be eager to go ranging into the darkspawn infested swamp to hunt an ancient and powerful maleficar.”

“Your sense of humor is most unpleasant.”

“That’s why you like me.”

“I do not like you one bit.”

He smiled. “Does this mean I can’t stay in your tent tonight?”

Her eyes flashed. “It most certainly does. You are most presumptuous.”

His mood, which had been almost good, fell. “Really? I thought…”

“What, that I am at your disposal, now? Or that you can make ridiculous promises you cannot keep and I will find it charming?”

“No. I just thought, I don’t know, we had some sort of arrangement going. Did I miss something?”

“Tis hardly a question, is it? We had a tentative agreement, yes, but you'll have to forgive me if I do not leap at your command like a trained warhound.”

“What command? I was… gods Morrigan. I was trying to flirt. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you angry. Clearly, I misinterpreted something.” He stood to go. Barkspawn, as if to illustrate what a trained warhound in the habit of leaping to commands was like, jumped up to follow him.

“Alistair.”

He stopped, half hoping she was going to change her mind, half thinking it was best if she did not. He really was losing his mind to repeatedly come sniffing around Morrigan, like some kind of glutton for punishment.

“I am not of a mood tonight,” she said, but the harshness had gone out of her voice. “I wish only to sleep.”

He paused, debating whether or not to risk her ire again, but finally settled on, “I could do that, you know.”

“What?”

“Just sleep. In a tent. With you.”

She was quiet, and he looked back, to see if there was a sneer on her face or something else.

She was looking at him with puzzlement. “Why?”

“Why not? Because it’s cold? Because you seemed to like it, last night? I don’t know, why does everything have to be interrogated?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she said, “Very well. Only because tis cold on this windy hilltop, as you said.”

He relaxed, feeling as if he’d just navigated dangerous waters without capsizing.

“But your hound remains outside. I’m not so cold that I wish to cuddle your mongrel.”

“One stinky Fereldan mutt is enough for you? I understand,” he said, allowing a grin.

“As you say.”

“Well, I need to stand watch but I’ll join you after that?” he said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. Casually making plans with Morrigan still felt foreign and dangerous.

“I shall be here.” She held out her now empty bowl of stew and looked away. Their fingers brushed as he took the bowl from her, and he had to remind himself that he was meant to behave himself tonight if he wanted her company for the duration.

He took first watch, patrolling the edges of camp with Barkspawn by his side, until the moon was high above them and Lythra came quietly creeping up to stand beside him. She always crept to and fro even when it wasn’t necessary, but as the rest of the camp had settled into quiet slumber by now that made her stealth seem almost polite. Her uncanny elven eyes glowed ever so slightly with the reflection of the moonlight and the pale bloodmarkings on her face stood out against her dark skin.

“All quiet tonight,” he said softly, nodding to her as she stood by.

“I sense nothing,” she agreed, speaking the shared Warden language, tilting her face to the cool autumn wind as if she could smell the darkspawn rather than feel them in her blood.

It was early autumn now, and it had been spring when he’d first met Lythra. Their journey had eaten up a whole summer so far, and yet he felt as if almost nothing had been accomplished, besides Loghain consolidating power and the darkspawn spreading death as they roamed Ferelden in marauding bands. At least they had not amassed into a horde and destroyed other towns and cities, like Lothering and Crestwood. Not yet.

“Safe watch,” he said, turning to leave.

“Dareth shiral,” she said, though he was not going on a journey. His footsteps only carried him to the edge of camp.

Morrigan was the only one who seemed to still be awake. Her campfire was reduced to ash, but she had a candle lit within her tent which illuminated the canvas in a warm orange glow which made it stand out like a beacon for him.

He knew, somehow, that Lythra was watching him as he headed to Morrigan’s tent.

What she thought about that, he had no idea. It would be absurd to imagine jealousy or regret over having rejected him. He knew she was more friendly with Morrigan, generally, than she was with anyone else, but she disliked Cousland and had only had disapproving sneers for their relationship. If she didn’t like the thought of him and Morrigan together Alistair figured he would know eventually. But she was not the kind to openly gossip, and though a stray frown might give her away, he did not have to worry about her sniping to the others.

Barkspawn trotted behind him and he did whine with displeasure when he realized that Alistair meant to abandon him, rather than their usual nighttime arrangement of the hound resting heavily upon his feet while he tried not to toss and turn. “Sorry boy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you can’t really compete with a beautiful woman.”

Barkspawn huffed and ran back off in the direction of Lythra, and Alistair didn’t feel all that bad about it.

He carefully removed his armor and left it in a neat pile outside Morrigan’s tent. He realized that such a display was like putting up a signpost inviting gossip from the others, but at that point he didn’t really care. If any of them hooted or hollered the next morning they could deal with Morrigan’s wrath.

Once he was down to just his shirt and breeches he crouched down and pulled aside the tent flap. Morrigan was sitting up inside, but she had changed her clothes and let her hair down. There was only very dim light from her candle illuminating the inside of the tent, and as he crawled inside and let the canvas close behind him she blew it out. It was a shame. He wanted to see her, even if he had agreed to do nothing more than sleep beside her.

She had a heavy bearskin blanket that she’d carried rolled up in her pack ever since leaving the wilds. Now she spread it over the both of them, and he shivered as she snuggled up to him.

“You are most ridiculous,” she said, her face close to his chest. He could feel the warmth of her breath even through his shirt.

He didn’t know what she meant by it. In what way was he ridiculous? Because he’d offered to kill her mother? Because he was content to sleep, fully clothed, under a blanket with her, without trying to recreate the naked passion they’d shared at the inn? Or was he ridiculous in her eyes for other reasons he could not even imagine?

Alistair did not pursue any explanation for the remark, though, and chose instead to circle an arm around her and pull her in closer against his body. Her head rested on his shoulder and he smelled her hair, the woodsy aroma of flowers and herbs that he’d come to associate with her. It was calming, and he was very tired, so he thought it would not be so hard to drift into sleep with her there, and not be too tormented by desire.

He almost was asleep when he felt one slender hand slide down into his breeches and caress his manhood. His eyes flew open, though there was little to see in the dark, and he said, “What are you doing?”

Her wandering hand moved up and down his shaft, but only lightly, tickling him. It was enough to make him hard, though.

“Nothing,” she said. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t, and her hand kept moving up and down his cock, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him oblivious to anything besides the pleasure of her touch.

But then she stopped, pulled her hand away, and whispered in his ear, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.”

“Then you lied. You cannot just sleep with me, all chaste and innocent.”

“Yes, I can. I can do whatever you want, Morrigan.”

“I want to sleep,” she said.

“Then keep your hands to yourself, hmm?”

“I don’t want  _ you _ to sleep.”

“But… oh you are cruel.”

“Evil,” she said, kissing his neck. “The evil witch, isn’t that what you call me?”

“Please…”

“Please? For what do you beg, Alistair?”

“Don’t torment me like this.”

“Tormenting foolish men is what I do, though. How have you not learned this? Have you not spoken to your friend Cousland?” She punctuated each sentence with a hot kiss on his neck.

Her mention of Aedan threw him completely off. He had almost forgotten. All he could do was answer honestly, “No, I haven’t. Not about you.”

“I see.” There was a note of surprise in her voice, and she drew back.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked. “Or are we going to sleep.”

“You can sleep after you’ve fucked me.”

“Oh. Is that what you really want? No mind games, Morrigan.”

“Yes. Shut up and use your cock. Now.”

He did, quickly pulling down his breeches and turning her over onto her back. He spread himself on top of her and thrust between her legs. She held onto him, twisting his shirt up in both hands, and there were no more words between them, no sound but her quick gasps as he fucked her roughly, urgently under the bearskin blanket.

He was able to restrain himself from finishing until he felt the intensity of her orgasm. She said his name in a way he’d never heard anyone say it before, breathless, ragged, intense. Her hands bunching his shirt as she gripped his shoulders and threw her head back, her walls throbbing against his cock in ecstasy until he found his release inside her. It was the best thing, and the strangest thing, to have Morrigan so undone beneath him. He could not make out the details of her face, but the feel of her, the smell of her, the sound of her breathing, overwhelmed his senses. Morrigan was everywhere, inside and out.

The memory of her crying his name lingered in the silence. He thought he should say something in response, say her name, perhaps, but she had rendered him speechless.

Alistair pulled away, and Morrigan turned over onto her side. He pulled his breeches up and lay on his back, staring up at the indistinct interior of the tent.

Everything about being with Morrigan was twisted. He was a plaything to her, subject to her capricious whims, but Maker help him, he was enjoying the game. He’d never felt so perilously alive.

He rolled back over and curled himself around Morrigan, spooning her gently as he tried to find a comfortable position. She snuggled into him, nestling her head on his arm. He allowed himself a bit of fantasy as they drifted towards sleep in a warm post-coital embrace. This was how he would cradle the woman he loved, if she existed. She would say his name and he would whisper hers back, tenderly. Only there was a gap in the fantasy where that name fit. There was just Morrigan, and he dare not speak her name, dare not whisper it into her ear, which was so close he could smooth back her hair and kiss the delicate edge of it, nibble the lobe, kiss her neck and collarbone…

“Go to sleep,” she said, reaching one hand up to lightly bat his roving mouth away. “You may have endless Warden stamina but I do not. If you cannot behave I shall have to put you out of the tent.”

He ceased activities, obediently, but squeezed her tight for a moment before relaxing and closing his eyes for sleep.


	7. Splitting the Party (The West Road)

Lythra approached him a couple of days later. They were nearing South Reach, and she said, “I’ve been talking to Korren and Zevran. The Brecilian is nearby. I think we’d be foolish to pass it by without looking for the Dalish.”

He was surprised. He’d thought everyone was finally in agreement that finding a way to revive Eamon and get his help against Loghain was of the utmost importance. Searching the vast Brecilian for the Dalish clans could take several weeks, and they were already facing a long journey to Haven.

But before he could get any of this out, she continued, “I know you need to go to Haven. And you should. I think we will have more luck with the Dalish if we split up, and I go on with Korren and Zevran. They are not Dalish, I know, but I know my people and they will be more receptive to city elves than shems. It is best if the three of us go alone.”

“What about Nelmirea?”

She made a sour face.

“Did you ask her? Is she willing?”

“Yes… and no. She and Solomae are inseparable these days, as surely you’ve noticed. She won’t split off from the group unless Solomae is with her.”

“Do you think one human is going to piss off the Dalish that much?”

“It’s a risk. There are many Dalish who kill shems on sight in the forest.” Her eyes skittered away from his face and she looked at the ground as she said this.

“But not if you’re there to vouch for her, surely?”

Lythra shrugged. “I don’t see the point. And I’m not really asking you for permission or suggestions. I just need the signed treaty for the Dalish.”

He sighed. He held the treaty scrolls for safekeeping, as he had ever since Flemeth had handed them over, and it was the only thing about being the so-called leader that gave anyone any reason to follow him.

“Honestly, no,” he said, and the shock on her face as she whipped her head back up was satisfying, to say the least.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to take a healer with you. Wynne is the best healer, but Solomae is pretty good at it too. So take Nelmirea and Solomae, and figure out how to deal with hostile elves. I’m not giving you the Dalish treaty scroll otherwise.”

She snorted, but seeing that he was quite serious, crossed her arms and said, “The forest is my home. I know it through and through. I know my people. It’s insulting that you think I need to drag those two idiots along with me.”

“I know they’re temperamental, but they’re mages, after all. You still need them. You don’t know what you’ll encounter. The forest might be overrun by darkspawn emissaries.”

“Fine,” she snapped, “I will take them, if you insist, but only to end this discussion.”

He wondered what he had done to irritate her so much.

“What about Sten?” he said, pressing the issue. “I think you should take him with you, too.”

Sten had been grousing about heading away from Denerim on a fool’s errand, not seeing any value in searching for the Sacred Ashes or healing the human lord. He thought they should storm the castle and overthrow Loghain all by themselves. He kept talking about challenging someone to a duel, switching between threatening Alistair, Aedan, or Duran, depending on the day. It would be good to get rid of him—if he tried to challenge Lythra’s authority she’d just shoot an arrow through his neck and that would take care of that.

“Any more commands, Prince Alistair?” she asked, acerbically. He might get an arrow to the throat, come to think of it.

“I just want to make sure you come back. You’ll need Sten’s blade,” he said. “You need someone big and strong to shield you.”

“Why, because we’re all tiny little elves? I’ll make Solomae stand out front, she’s big enough.”

He was understanding Duncan’s penchant for heavy sighs more and more every day.

“You should respect your designated healer more,” he said. “She may literally be holding your life in her hands one day.”

She just snorted again, and he was sure she hadn’t been this abrasive since she had first followed Duncan out of the Brecilian, spitting fire about how she didn’t want to join the Wardens and would sooner die than call a shem her brother in arms. She’d calmed down since then, but Lythra still never thought she needed any help in battle, always standing back flinging her arrows from afar. She didn’t really appreciate how much work the vanguard did to keep the enemy at that distance for her.

“I will ask Sten to accompany us but I cannot guarantee that he would want to,” she conceded, ignoring his reprimand about mocking Solomae’s generous curves. “Can I have the treaty, now?”

“We will need to make sure we have a plan to meet back up. When you’re done, head to Redcliffe and wait for us there.”

“That is what I intended,” she said. “If we are not at Redcliffe by the end of autumn, you may assume we all perished in the forest, and you may also assume that it was because of Solomae or Sten angering the Dalish.”

“Fair enough. And if the rest of us don’t come back to Redcliffe before long, you can assume we all froze to death in the Frostbacks,” he said, cheerfully. But he did not feel altogether as flippant as he tried to sound.

He didn’t like the idea of splitting up. Their company was strong when they were all together, but splintering would weaken them and render them unable to communicate with each other. It gave him feelings of deep unease. He could assume all he wanted, but if they disappeared into the forest with the treaty for the Dalish and he never saw them again, he would never be sure what had happened. Not unless they went in after them.

It also worried him that Lythra was so dead set on it, when she had not been invested in any of their decisions since leaving the Wilds. Maybe her story was a lie and what she really intended was to travel to Gwaren and hire a ship to take her, Korren, and Zevran up to Antiva to escape the Blight. That would certainly explain why she didn’t want to take the mages.

But no, Lythra didn’t really seem like one to run from the Blight. If anything, she likely hoped to die in the forest and didn’t want a healer around to thwart her. He would never understand why she so often spoke of dying as being preferable to her current predicament. Yes, leaving her clan had been a culture shock and he could imagine how upsetting it was (though he’d been more than happy to leave his old life behind), but longing vocally for death was such a drastic reaction.

He gave her the treaty, though. It was hard to argue against the idea as presented, much as he disliked it. They could indeed cover more ground more quickly if they divided up, and they would need the Dalish clans whether or not Eamon recovered.

So he dug the treaties out of his pack and solemnly handed the Dalish scroll over to her. It had been signed long ago by several Keepers at an Arlathvhen and he could only hope the current clan leaders would honor their ancestors. Having Lythra as the Grey Warden holding the treaty would definitely help. That is, if she did not complain about her conscription, denounce the human world, and warn the elves to flee.

She took the scroll and he thought they were done, but she hovered for a moment, worrying the parchment in her hands. Then she finally said, apropos of nothing, “You’ve been spending all your time with Morrigan, lately.”

“Oh, I have?” He feigned shock. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t like it.”

He smiled, amused. “Think she’s a bad influence, do you?”

“Bad? No. I just don’t know what you’re playing at.”

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business,” he said, growing defensive.

Lythra could be as straightforward and piercing with her words as she was with her arrows, and she did not hold back. “I consider Morrigan a friend. I disliked the way Cousland preyed upon her and I dislike how quickly you swooped in to take his place, despite never having a good thing to say about her before. That’s all.”

“I’m not preying upon her.” His voice pitched higher in indignation.

“Hm,” she uttered, her eyes narrowing. She tapped the treaty scroll thoughtfully and said, “Well, be good to her. I’ll know if you aren’t.”

His ability to form a comeback was trashed in that moment, and he could only expel a few huffs and puffs and abortive efforts to form a sentence. It didn’t matter, though, because she turned away and started heading off towards Maker-only-knew where, without waiting for a response.

“I’ll see you in Redcliffe,” she shouted back at him, not even turning around, and she managed to make it sound like a threat.

“Good!” he shouted back, pointedly refusing to take her meaning. “I hope so!”


	8. Bad Poetry (Return to Ostagar)

The funeral pyre of Cailan Theirin was unorthodox.

There were no clerics to oversee the last rites. Leliana was the closest thing they had, and she sang a song of mourning for the Fereldan King as he was reduced to ash on a pyre built hastily from rubble.

They might have transported his body back to Redcliffe, or Denerim, had it not been festering on a crucifix over the bridge for so long. What had once been Cailan was now a gruesome sight, and the fact that the darkspawn were clever enough to single out the King from the rest of the dead made it all the more disturbing. Some part of Alistair wanted the people of Ferelden to see what Loghain’s treachery had done to the King, so they understood the depth of his betrayal… but no. It was best to burn him quickly and get it over with.

The funeral provided a good opportunity to speak to the remaining Wardens about going to kill Flemeth. Cailan was still burning when Alistair broached the subject.

“I’m going deeper into the Wilds at first light tomorrow,” he said. “To hunt down and kill the Witch of the Wilds. I would welcome help.”

Morrigan stood with arms crossed on the other side of the pyre, and she just kept staring ahead in silence, giving away nothing of her thoughts.

“You’re talking about Morrigan’s mother,” said Aedan, and it was the first time he’d deigned to speak to Alistair in several days.

“Yes.”

“She is a very dangerous apostate,” said Wynne. “I am not sure it is wise to pursue her at a time like this. There are many stories of templars falling prey to the Witch of the Wilds.”

“Tis all true,” Morrigan proclaimed. “My mother loves nothing more than to lure foolish templars into the Wilds to their doom.”

“And you want your mother dead?” Natia Brosca asked, wonder in her voice. “I mean, my mother is a nasty drunk and the ancestors know I’ve wanted to slap her, but I can’t imagine wanting her dead…”

“Tis a necessity,” Morrigan said, but then turned away, clearly uncomfortable having to explain the situation to everyone.

“She’s a body snatcher,” said Alistair. “And she’s probably not actually Morrigan’s ‘mother’ if I understand the situation. She kidnaps children with magical gifts to raise and uses some kind of necromantic blood magic to steal their bodies and make herself immortal. She’s going to come after Morrigan, or failing that, find some other child to possess.”

“A nasty business. But I don’t see what this has to do with stopping the Blight,” said Duran Aeducan. “Someone should put an end to this witch, I’ll grant you, but is it really Grey Warden business?”

“No,” said Alistair. “It’s just something that I intend to do.”

Aedan snorted. The others looked to Cousland curiously, but he said nothing, leaving the derisive noise hanging in the air.

After an uncomfortable moment in which no one stepped forward with an offer of support, Alistair said, “Well, anyway, think on it. Like I said. First thing in the morning.”

“And those of us who do not wish to waste our time on witch hunting? Do we continue on to Haven?” Aedan would not be silent any longer. “Or do you expect us to stay in these darkspawn infested ruins waiting on your return?”

“You can do whatever you want, Cousland,” Alistair snapped back. “I’m not your Commander or your Prince. Do what you think is best.”

Aedan slammed one fist into his open palm. “I want justice for my family. I need Arl Eamon for that. I thought healing him was your top priority, as well. But you’ve been doing nothing but dilly-dallying since we left Denerim. We’ve already lost half our company because you let the Dalish girl run off with our best mages and our strongest warrior, and we’ve traveled miles out of our way in order to come to Ostagar to root around for buried treasure. Now on top of that you want to lead us on a suicide mission into the heart of the swamp because you’ve been bewitched by a wh—”

“Watch your words,” Morrigan interrupted him before he could finish his rant.

Aedan turned towards her. “Or what? You’ll cast a spell on me? Kill me?”

“Please,” Leliana interjected. “It does no good to fight amongst ourselves like this.”

“Look. I know what’s going on. We all know what’s going on,” Aedan said. He continued to address Morrigan. “You have Alistair dancing to your tune. You tried your tricks on me first but I was too strong willed to fall under your spell, so now you’ve moved on to easier prey.”

“Oh is that so? And what, pray tell, are my devious plans?” Morrigan asked haughtily.

“Maker only knows. Right now you are getting others to do your dirty work, trying to manipulate us into killing your mother.” He turned back to Alistair and said, “I have held my tongue thus far, but you need to stop being a fool. Can’t you see what she’s doing? She doesn’t care for you. She didn’t care for me. She wants power.”

“Just shut up, Aedan,” Alistair said. “You sound like a jealous ass, ranting because you were jilted and Morrigan moved on.”

“Jilted! Hardly. I ended my association with Morrigan when I understood her true nature,” said Aedan. “I am the son of a teyrn, the last surviving Cousland, and you are the son of a king, the last known Theirin. She just wants to use whichever one of us she can get her claws into, and you’ve let her leash you like a mabari whelp.”

“Such sordid accusations,” Morrigan said, her eyes flashing. “Tis most ridiculous. You are neither of you powerful men that I should scheme and plot to seduce you. I will hear no more of this.”

She turned on her heel sharply and stalked away into the increasing gloom away from the funeral pyre. Alistair immediately went to follow her, but Aeden reached to grab him by the arm as he passed by.

Alistair jerked away from him swiftly and then shoved him for good measure. Aedan, not expecting such a reaction, lost his balance and fell backwards, landing on the ground in an ungainly clank of plate mail. His face was a red with anger and shock, but he could not immediately leap to his feet, weighted down by his heavy armor.

“Asshole,” was all Alistair said, and left him there, following Morrigan.

He jogged to catch up to her, but as soon as he reached her she said, “I wish to be alone, Alistair.”

“Where are you going?”

“I do not know, besides a quiet place far away from the rest of you,” she said. “If we are to make camp here tonight I would like to be as far away from the stench of putrid burning flesh as possible.”

“I’m sorry the smell of my dead brother offends you.”

“We are all rotting flesh in the end,” she retorted harshly, her shoulders tensing. But only a moment passed before she exhaled a sigh and said, “I… I’m sorry. Tis ghoulish, what they did to him.”

“And I’m sorry for what Aedan said.”

“Why do you apologize for another? His words are the blather of an arrogant boy who thinks his concerns should be the center of the world.”

“But—”

“Tis plain that he only rails against me because he imagines that I have thwarted his plans to match you with his sister, a notion so ludicrous that it does not bear further contemplation.”

“Alright, but you’re still upset. So I’m sorry he said all that. I feel like it’s my fault.”

“I did not ask you to take it upon yourself to kill my mother and I most certainly did not ask you to announce it to the others so… clumsily,” she said, refusing to look at him as she walked away. They came to a wall, which forced her to stop, but she crossed her arms and looked pointedly at the crumbling stone instead of him. “I cannot understand your insistence at playing the hero. Did you think to impress me by rallying a group to slay the maleficar?”

“No. I’m not… look, you said that you needed her dead. I agreed. It’s that simple.”

She swung her pack off her shoulders and yanked at the straps that held the canvas of her tent in a tight roll.

“I do not wish to argue,” she said. “All I wish is to be alone.”

He watched her as she unrolled her tent in the cold dark corner of the Ostagar ruins. He didn’t understand her. She would not ask for his help even though she so clearly needed it, and perhaps that’s what angered her about the situation so much. To have to be reliant on him to go kill her mother instead of being able to do it herself. She probably hated the idea of being indebted to him. Not that he thought of it as something she would owe him for. If it was true that Flemeth had lived for ages by stealing the bodies of others, she needed to be ended, not just for Morrigan’s sake.

Still, maybe he shouldn’t have been so eager to volunteer for the task and to lead the remaining Wardens on a detour to Ostagar when they had business in Haven. He did know how it looked to the others, as if he was losing sight of the overall mission.

Morrigan might have come round to asking for help if he’d given her time. But it was too late to second guess. He’d already declared to her and the rest that he was going to go hunt down Flemeth, and he couldn't waffle now. This is why no one should have ever made him a leader. They could complain all they wanted about him but it served them right, in the end.

“Why are you standing there gawping at me?” Morrigan asked.

He sighed. Then, with a nod, said, “I’ll leave you be.”

“Shall I offer praise to Andraste?”

“Good night, Morrigan.”

He turned and left, returning to the pyre where his brother’s body still burned. It would be hours yet before the fire would consume Cailan completely and they could gather some of the ash left behind to return to the crypts of Denerim, reuniting him with his royal ancestors. They would not be able to gather it all, like a proper Andrastan funeral, so a bit of Cailain would always remain here at Ostagar.

Leliana and Wynne were the only ones who still stood watch near the pyre. He approached them with slumped shoulders, fully expecting to be subjected to a dual lecture about losing sight of the mission and succumbing to Morrigan’s wiles.

Wynne did not disappoint. She eyed him and said, “Young Lord Cousland’s words were poorly chosen, Alistair, but I fear that there is some truth to his assessment. I have been holding my tongue, but I have noticed that you and Morrigan have become closer of late.”

“And I suppose it just boggles the mind, does it?”

“Not at all. Well, at first I was surprised, since neither of you seemed to like the other much. But she is very beautiful—cunning and duplicitous, yes, but quite attractive—and you are very young. If you were not a Grey Warden and we were not fighting against the Blight, I might turn away and allow you your youthful indiscretions. But as things stand, it concerns me.”

“Uh huh. And what about you, Leliana? Are you scandalized?”

“Scandalized? No. You forget that I was not always at the cloister in Lothering. I know the ways of the world.”

“But you disapprove.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “When I was a bard, I saw many relationships all around me that were built on lies and selfishness. I saw people using each other for money, power, lust; all manner of reasons except love. You’re not like that, Alistair. You’re sweet. Didn’t you tell me that you were waiting for a special person? That you hadn’t lain with a woman yet because you wanted to be sure it was real? I hate to see you lose your belief in true love, like this. It saddens me. That is all.”

“Alright. Noted. Both of you. So are you going to help me kill Flemeth, or not?”

“Are you quite determined?” Wynne asked. “Surely you do not plan on striking out on your own if no one will go with you?”

“I intend to do just that,” he said, stubbornly. “Just me and Barkspawn.” At least his hound was always loyal and never said no to a fight.

Alistair was tired of backing down and deferring to others. He wasn’t a good leader; fine, he didn’t want to be. He’d have been happy to follow someone else’s lead if there had been anyone else who could unite the bickering wardens. Lythra should have been the one to do it, she had it in her, or so he’d thought, but she seemed only to care about their mission when it meant going back to the Dalish.

“I will go with you,” said Wynne, sounding incredibly tired. “If there is any truth to what Morrigan claims, then Flemeth must be stopped before she can repeat this cycle of possession. If Morrigan is misleading you for her own selfish desire to see her mother dead… well, we could at least speak to the woman and decide for ourselves if she is truly dangerous.”

“I have already met her,” Alistair said. “She, uh… she saved our lives. Me and Lythra. We would have died at the Tower of Ishal if she hadn’t saved us and nursed us back to life.”

Wynne frowned. “I see. And you would repay her with murder?”

“It’s not that simple. Yes, I owe her my life, but that doesn’t make her trustworthy. I didn’t fully believe her reasoning at the time. There’s something very strange about her. She’s not harmless, whatever she is. I think she does want us to stop the Blight, but that doesn’t mean she’s a good person. Everyone fears the Blight. Maybe she just hoped we would keep the world intact so she can go on stealing children and living forever through dark magic.”

“I suppose,” Wynne mused. “I have no love of apostates or maleficarum, so I do not object on principle to this mission. But it is for Morrigan’s sake, not some imaginary child of the future, that you are concerned.”

“Is that wrong? Do you really think Morrigan _deserves_ to be used as a meat suit for an old demon, or whatever Flemeth is?”

“I just think you should be careful who you enable. I do not blame Morrigan for her upbringing, any more than I blame any other child who is kept from the Chantry and not taught the proper use of their magic. But there is a very good chance Morrigan may one day become as dangerous and as cruel as Flemeth, following in her footsteps.”

“She is already quite the vile fiend,” opined Leliana. “I have never met someone so openly disdainful of love and kindness, who scorns charity and goodness at every turn, who would favor any manner of depravity if she saw benefit in it for herself.”

“You really don’t like her, do you?”

“I thought we were of a similar mind about her. I see I must be wrong, or you would not be taking up with her this way, and you would not be risking your life to save hers.”

“I’m just incredibly altruistic, I guess,” he quipped.

Leliana just knit her brows in a concerned, thoughtful way.

“Look,” he tried again, “can we not talk about this tonight? If you want to give me relationship advice later, fine. But it’s been a long day and tomorrow’s not going to be easy. So. Just tell me if you’re in or not and we’ll leave it at that.”

“I have already said that I will help you,” Wynne said. “Despite my misgivings.”

“I will help you as well,” Leliana vowed. “But I’m doing it because I don’t want you to get yourself killed on Morrigan’s account. I’m not doing it for her.”

“Great. That’s settled, then,” he said, avoiding her gaze. That she cared about his well-being that much did touch him, but he didn’t know how to respond to her harsh words about Morrigan.

He stared at the pyre. “I should stand vigil until… until there’s nothing left of Cailan. I never really felt like he was actually my brother, in life, but now that he’s dead… well he’s my only brother, isn’t he? Was, I mean.” He sighed heavily. “Anyway. If you don’t mind taking care of supper tonight, I’m just going to… I don’t know, _think_ for a bit.”

“Of course,” said Wynne, her voice growing gentle. He much preferred that grandmotherly sort of tone to the scolding one he got for consorting with Morrigan.

Both she and Leliana turned to go. He watched them walk a little ways off, upwind of the pyre, where the dwarves were setting up camp. He looked around for Aedan but did not see him. Perhaps, like Morrigan, Cousland preferred to be alone. Or maybe he was harassing her. Alistair could not see Morrigan’s tent from where he stood, as she had chosen a spot well sheltered by bushes and broken stone. He did see the faint orange glow of a fire from that direction.

He wouldn’t worry about her, tonight, though. If Aedan wanted to bother her he’d probably end up turned into a toad and tossed into the soup pot.

Alistair wondered what manner of jealousy made Aedan so upset. Was it whatever had gone sour between him and Morrigan, or anger at his spoiled plans for Alistair and Elissa? Perhaps it was a bit of both.

He stood watch by the pyre for hours. Barkspawn sat with him, his only company besides the disintegrating corpse of his half-brother. It gave him an uncomfortably long time to think about Ostagar, and how it had all gone wrong, how all Cailan’s infectious dreams of glory had been dashed by a faithless general. And now Mac Tir had proclaimed himself the Regent and hid Cailan’s widow away from view. How long had Loghain been plotting this coup? If the Blight had not begun, would he have found another way to dispatch Cailan and take the throne? A poisoning, perhaps? Or maybe a convenient riding accident? Surely there were ways to do it that didn’t involve the slaughter of countless soldiers and Grey Wardens.

They had the letters between Eamon, Celene, and Cailan now. The motivation behind Lohain’s treachery was laid bare. Poisoning Eamon, abandoning Cailan, all because Anora couldn’t produce an heir and Eamon and Cailan had been looking to replace her. Alistair didn’t have many spare thoughts about whether or not Cailan was right to set his wife aside. He’d always hated all that royal nobility crap, anyway, and this was just part of it. They didn’t marry for love; it was a contract so the nobility could breed and solidify alliances. That cold, calculating life had always frightened him, honestly. People were not hounds to be bred together like mabaris, and the way everything every noble did had to be political, part of some scheme, seemed to sap all the joy out of life.

But what had he known about anything, really? He’d spent half his life in the Chantry, being taught to fear sex and repent constantly for his own ignorable origins, to resent the shame his father had brought upon himself and his family name by siring a baseborn bastard with a star-struck maid.

And now here he was, with Morrigan. They had spent every night together on the road between Denerim and Ostagar. It was… an education, to put it mildly. He found that he liked sex. Really, really, liked sex. And he supposed that meant he really liked Morrigan, for he could not get enough of her. And she seemed to want him just as much, which was the really surprising part. It did not matter how long they had marched or how tired they were from encountering enemies on the road, she would not let him sleep beside her until he had satisfied her.

It wasn’t love, exactly, but it wasn’t the cold dispassionate arranged marriages that the noble side of his family line practiced, either. It was something in between. Something common, but not altogether bad. Maybe he had allowed the Chantry to unfairly prejudice him against lust, after all.

He felt lonely, now, despite Barkspawn’s company. It had been, what, a week and a half since they had left Denerim? Perhaps Morrigan _had_ bewitched him if he felt disconsolate at the idea of one night without her company.

He thought about the things Leliana, Wynne, and Aedan had said. And Lythra, before she had left.

He should have been able to defend Morrigan more directly, to put his foot down and say they were wrong and he wouldn’t allow anyone to talk about his lady in such a way. But that all felt false, because she wasn’t really his lady and Maker knows he’d said his share of unkind things about her, not so long ago.

Things were different now and it was difficult to explain why.

Morrigan had not changed since he had first met her. Not really. She herself would have scoffed at the idea that she was any different. If his opinion of her changed it was only because he chose to see her in a different light.

That first meeting had been out in the Wilds, in the ancient swampy ruins, while he had been supervising Lythra, Daveth and Korren on their ranging mission prior to their Joinings.

It was not as if she’d done anything to them that day, though he had been deeply suspicious of her. There had been no trap, not yet, but he worried later that Flemeth insisting they take Morrigan along with them out of the Wilds was itself a kind of trap. He’d thought her a possible spy or disrupter, but hadn’t been able to pinpoint a motive for such duplicity. The idea of Flemeth as an agent of Loghain’s or somehow in league with darkspawn was absurd given the lengths she had gone to in order to save him and Lythra. The notion that she had her own hidden agenda had made perfect sense, but he’d never gotten around to figuring out what that might be.

Knowing her ghoulish plans for Morrigan cleared up those feelings of unease a little.

As for Morrigan, in getting to know her more after they fled the Wilds, he’d thought her lacking any sort of true morality, humanity, loyalty, or compassion. He believed that If there was ever a reason to betray them she would do so without regard for right or wrong. In fact, “right” to Morrigan seemed only strength and power, and “wrong” was the lack of it.

Her contempt for the very idea of helping the vulnerable people they encountered in Lothering, Redcliffe, and Kinloch Hold had established a pattern of cruel mindedness towards anyone she deemed not self-reliant enough to be worth their saving. And besides all that, her disdain for his emotional distress about Duncan and the massacre at Ostagar had hurt him personally and convinced him that she was heartless.

She’d never apologized for that. He didn’t expect that she would. Her opinions on the world and of him had not been altered. The fundamental differences in their beliefs and values had not suddenly taken a shift.

He was the one who had changed. He was sacrificing his ideals for the immediate and temporary comfort of those nightly visits to Morrigan. And he did not regret it.

It was his choice to fuck her and his choice to stay with her, holding her as they slept, enjoying the warmth of her and the smell of her. He enjoyed waking up with her in the mornings, seeing her mussed hair and sleepy face before she put herself together to face the day. It was like a drug he was fast becoming all too fond of. Like lyrium. How long before it could accurately be called an addiction? Maybe she was using him, maybe this was all part of some devious psychological manipulation he was just too stupid to understand, but he was in it now. He didn’t even really want to get out. Damn the consequences, indeed.

He still had the silver spider hairpin that he’d traded for in Denerim. The time to give her a gift had just never seemed right. They had been getting on far too well just as things were, and he didn’t want to spoil it by seeming sentimental in her eyes. He kept it secreted away in his pack, as closely guarded as the Grey Warden treaties. He didn’t know if the time would ever be right. Maybe he would just keep it. Perhaps one day, after this was all over and they had parted ways, he would look at it and remember his first time, his first woman… and what a woman she was. A wild, beautiful, mysterious, dangerous thing. Like a rose hidden behind thorns. If you were willing to bloody your hands to pluck her you could find quite the reward.

Oh Maker, he was being idiotic now. Truly. Starting to compose bad poetry in his mind. If he had a bit of parchment and some ink he could make a total fool of himself. Maybe Morrigan would regret banishing him for the night if he came back in the morning with a poem about her delicious round breasts and deep golden eyes. Maybe a long, ponderous ode describing the taste of her womanhood and the forbidden juices of her desire. Something terrible and horny like what repressed 15-year-old templar initiates had written about Andraste and Maferath, or Andraste and the Maker, passing them around the bunkroom at night.

Those forbidden pornographic stories had been his only sexual education before Morrigan. He remembered one tract, in particular, which had parodied the Canticle of Trials, except it was about a lone Brother in a cloister full of Sacred Sisters, whose most sacred duty was to go around performing Most Holy cunnilingus on the Sisters during evening Chant every night. He’d thought about it the first time he’d put his face between Morrigan’s legs, spreading her thighs wide apart so that he could explore her vulva with his mouth, his face buried in the wild thatch of dark hair that normally shrouded her womanhood from view. That had been their fourth night together.

He imagined Morrigan would hate his terrible attempts at writing songs detailing her many charms, and would crumple up the paper and toss it into the fire. But it might be worth it to see her face, or to just slip it into her pack when she wasn’t looking, for her to find it later. She’d be reaching for something and find a sonnet about the shape of her buttocks instead. It would irritate her to no end.

Maybe Aedan was right. Maybe he had lost his mind.


	9. Delusions of Heroism (Ostagar)

He didn’t realize that he had fallen asleep until much later, when he was nudged awake by the not-so-gentle foot of Brosca. He had snuggled up with Barkspawn on the ground, kept warm by the hound and, to his vague horror, his brother’s funeral pyre. To his further dismay, when he sat up he realized that the direction of the wind had shifted while he slept and blown a thin layer of ash over him and Barkspawn.

He stood up abruptly and started brushing himself off, trying to shake it out of his hair and scrub it from the exposed parts of his skin. He felt gritty all over.

“Shit, sorry about that,” said Natia when she too realized what had happened. The pyre had burned down completely and it was dark around them, except for the torch the dwarf carried and the glow from the main fire that still burned several feet away. “Anyway, I’m supposed to be keeping watch. Noticed you sleeping there and was bored, thought you might want to talk a bit. Are you… are you okay?”

Alistair was throwing off his armor as quickly as he could, and he didn’t pause while answering, “No, Natia, no, I am not okay. I am literally covered in my dead brother’s ashes.”

“Oh sorry. I thought you two didn’t really know each other. But yeah, I don’t understand why you surfacers burn your dead. We dwarves return to the stone when we die. I can’t think of anything more horrible than being turned into dust to get swept up into the sky and blown about.” She paused, shuddering. “But, I mean, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure  _ most _ of the ash is from the pyre itself. So it’s mostly wood ash. That’s another reason I don’t understand you surfacers. How do you know which ash is the person and what’s the wood you burned them on? Like, if we find Andraste’s sacred ashes, won’t it be, like, mostly just wood ash? Does the wood from the pyre become sacred, too? Does it all have healing properties or do you have to sift Andraste out?”

Alistair was too busy feeling revolted and needing to remove all his ash covered clothes to pay attention to what she was rambling about. There wasn’t a stream or a lake nearby that he could wash himself in, and even if there was it would probably be polluted by the Blight. But there was fresh snow on the ground, as early autumn snowfalls were common this far south, so he started off into the darkness to find a handful of relatively clean snowfall.

“Hey where are you going?” Natia asked.

“To clean up.”

“You’re like… naked now. Um, wow. I mean. Sorry. What was I saying? Oh right, you’re not really going to run off into the dark in just your smallclothes are you? It’s freezing and there’s wolves and stuff out there. No darkspawn nearby, but trust me you don’t want to—”

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted, just wanting to get away from her. But she followed after him with her torch, ever so helpfully, and stood nearby while he picked up handfuls of snow that looked relatively clean in the moonlight and used it like a scrub to clean off the offending ash.

She stared at him openly, but he wasn’t as concerned about that right now as he was with feeling clean. He’d had his share of blood on him before but there was something different about being coated in a fine layer of your  _ own brother _ after falling asleep by a funeral pyre.

“So,” said Natia, filling the silence, “got kicked out of Morrigan’s tent, huh? I didn’t expect to find you sleeping there on the ground. I thought you were a corpse at first and I was like,  _ aw that dead soldier is hugging his dead mabari, that’s so sad _ and then I was like,  _ wait that’s Alistair and Barkspawn. _ ”

“Yup.”

He went to retrieve his pack, which was left beside the main campfire, and Natia followed him placidly, talking the whole time. “Duran and I had a bet going to see how long you’d last with Morrigan before she ate you or turned you into a bug or something. I’m not sure who won. She kicked you out but didn’t curse you, unless she made the wind change.”

He pulled his spare pair of relatively clean breeches and a minimally stained shirt out of his pack, grunting in automatic response to Natia. There was a pair of holey socks with dubious stains on them at the bottom of the pack, as well, which he’d been meaning to clean and darn, but he decided they’d have to do as they were.

Then he retrieved his armor, giving it a once over with more snow. Natia had switched to chattering about lyrium and enchanting and how dwarves couldn’t do magic or dream but judging from how much surfacers hated and feared mages, maybe that was just as well. Her talk created a low level wall of noise that was easy to tune out, but Alistair realized that he’d never really talked to Natia before. Not properly. He’d never thought of her as the excessively chatty sort. In fact, of the two dwarves that Duncan had brought back from Orzammar, Duran Aeducan had made much more of an impression.

They had reminded Alistair of the Cousland twins, in that way. Aedan and Duran were the talkers, the leaders, the confident nobles who were used to being listened to and obeyed.

Elissa and Natia had been hardly alike in most ways. Elissa was quieter than her brother but still a noble, and a lady without any fighting skills to speak of. Natia was a casteless dwarf who had grown up in squalor worse than any alienage, but who had made her way as a fighter working for the carta. Duncan had taken a Deep Roads route from Orzammar to near Ostagar, so neither Duran nor Natia had spent much time on the surface by the time Alistair met them. But Duran had adjusted fairly quickly, while Natia had struggled to come to terms with her new world.

Perhaps after a few months top-side she was becoming more comfortable. Or perhaps it took being the only two people awake in the dead of night for her to finally speak freely. And freely… and freely…

Finally, Alistair said, “Natia, do you want me to take over the watch? Go get some sleep, maybe?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, halting in the middle of a long ramble about the proper way to prepare lichen bread. She handed him the torch. “Thanks, Commander. You’re the best.”

He winced at the term “Commander.” Even though they had voted to make him—the “senior” warden—their temporary “commander,” it always felt like they were mocking him whenever they actually used the title. In fact he couldn’t think of a single time the term had been used respectfully.

“If I’m so great does that mean you’re coming to help hunt Flemeth down, tomorrow?”

She laughed nervously. “Ancestors, no. You’re daft going after this witch. No offense. I don’t have much of an opinion on Morrigan either way but if I’m going to die up here it’s going to be to stop the Blight, not someone’s creepy mum.”

“Uh huh.”

“Duran and I were thinking of traveling with Aedan up to Redcliffe, to wait for you there. You know, if you do make it back alive.”

“I see.”

“We just don’t want to be camped here too long. Too many darkspawn and blighted animals roaming the wilds.”

“Right. Well, I’m glad you told me, at least.”

“Of course. Well, good night. Try not to fall asleep again.”

There was little danger of that. He was wide awake now. The snow bath and Natia’s constant chatter had accomplished that. And he didn’t intend to sit down near a fire or snuggle up to Barkspawn for warmth. Instead he paced around the outer edges of their camp, carrying the torch and keeping alert for noises in the dark or a sense of approaching darkspawn. Fortunately things were still pretty quiet, since they had cleared out the ruins earlier that day.

He wandered close to Morrigan’s tent, telling himself it was just to check on her. Her fire had died out and there was no hint of light from within the tent, as there might have been if she had stayed up late into the night reading the grimoire. He didn’t linger too long, lest she wake up and find him hovering outside her tent, the most pathetic and creepy of men.

After enough time had passed he went to rouse Duran, and got out his bedroll to lay down by the campfire. The next thing he was aware of, it was morning and the first blush of sunrise was just painting the sky pink over the eastern edge of the ruins.

Aedan was already up. He was stoking the fire to heat up leftover stew for breakfast, and when he saw Alistair rise from his bedroll he said, “We’re setting out for Redcliffe first thing after breaking down camp. No sense in lingering here. I’ve heard you guilted Leliana and Wynne into helping you on your fool’s errand.”

“What is your problem, exactly, Aedan?” Alistair said by way of good morning.

“I made myself clear. You’ve fallen into a trap that’s obvious to everyone but yourself. I can’t help you out of it, and I’m not going to stick around to see if you get yourself killed.”

“Alright. I’ll see you back at Redcliffe then.”

Morrigan joined them a little while later, and when she was told that Aedan and the dwarves were traveling northwest while Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne were trekking further into the wilds to find Flemeth, she said, “I will go to Redcliffe as well.”

“Are you joking?” Leliana said. “We are going to kill your mother for you, and you will not even wait for us?”

“It’s fine,” said Alistair, waving Leliana off.

“I wish to be as far away as possible should you succeed,” Morrigan told her. “I do not know how far her wretched soul might be able to travel when it is sundered from her body. I fear if I am anywhere in the Wilds she will be able to find me.”

Alistair nodded. “Better for people to stick together, anyway. You shouldn’t stay in Ostagar by yourself, even if Flemeth is the only thing you’re afraid of.”

“So glad am I to have your approval.”

He shrugged. She was prickly as ever she had been before they had begun a relationship, but he had spent too much time pondering her moods already. All he could do now was refuse to rise up to snipe back at her with something equally as hurtful and sarcastic, as once he had been in the habit of doing.

Once breakfast was eaten and the tents were taken down and the embers of the fire stamped out, they were ready to be on their way.

“Could you take these with you to Ostagar?” Alistair said, approaching Morrigan with a pouch filled with Cailan’s ashes. “Give them to Teagan.”

She took the leather bag, which had some heft to it since he had filled it as full as he could. “I suppose I cannot refuse, as twould be most ungrateful of me.”

“Yes, well, they won’t cure anyone’s illness, Cailan wasn’t exactly what you’d call a saint,” he said, though the attempt at humor felt flat even to him. “Teagan will appreciate his nephew’s remains being returned, anyway.”

“Ah, yes, I imagine so. Perhaps I can charge a small fee for their safe delivery. How much do you think Bann Teagan might pay? 50 sovereigns, or is that too much.”

“I really hope you’re joking.”

Her mouth twitched into a smile. But then her eyes turned serious, and she said, “Alistair, do try not to be foolhardy. My mother is far more cunning and dangerous than you can even begin to imagine, and—”

“We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Tis your own delusions of valiance that send you on the mission. Remember that. I did not make any demands. I would have sought another way if I could.”

“Your faith in me is really touching. I appreciate it.”

She sighed. “I do have one request, if you can manage to not be smug about it.”

“Ah ha!”

“Alistair.”

“No, tell me. What is it?”

“I believe my mother has another grimoire, much like the one found at the circle. But one with more of her secrets. If you do manage to kill her, please search the hut for another grimoire and bring it back. I would be… I would be most grateful.”

The way she said it surprised him. The promise of gratitude was quite genuine. He couldn’t even make an off-color joke about, because he felt like she really meant it.

He remembered Wynne’s dire warnings that Morrigan was destined to become just another Flemeth, evil and conniving, sacrificing others to gain power or immortality. Placing her evil mother’s book of darkest magic into her hands might be nudging her on towards that destiny. Would it be right to do that? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to have that responsibility hanging over him. But he said, “Of course. What am I looking for? Big, evil looking book, with scary symbols all over it? Teeth along the edge, that sort of thing?”

“I believe it will have the symbol of a tree on it, just like the one from the circle.”

“Ah.”

“I would very much like to have it. Tis very important to me. I cannot stress this enough.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I suppose you should be off, then. Leliana and Wynne are waiting for you.”

“Right.”

They stood for a moment, as if waiting for the other to move. Alistair was not sure how to say goodbye to her, now. This would be the first time they’d parted since, well, since Flemeth had sent Morrigan out of the Wilds with him and Lythra. And it was the first time they’d had a reason to bid farewell to each other since becoming intimate. Shouldn’t she kiss him? Wish him luck?

“Alistair.”

“Mmmm?”

“My mother…”

“Yes…?”

“She can shapeshift, like me. She is the one who taught me the skill.”

“Right…”

“She may change if you challenge her.”

“Ah. So, giant spider? Massive wolf? Dire bear? Swarm of locusts? What’s her favorite form?”

“Dragon.”

“What?”

“A dragon.”

“Maker’s breath, Morrigan, you’re just telling me this now?”

Alistair had never seen a dragon in the flesh, had only heard rumors of them, and seen the archdemon in his dreams. The visions of the archdemon were terrifying enough, and he was not looking forward to facing it in reality one day.

“Yes, well, tis not too late, if you wish to quit. I will not hold it against you. I will simply go my own way and hide from my mother until I can find a—”

“No, no, I’m going to do it. I just think Wynne and Leliana are going to be a bit miffed, is all.”

She sighed. “Do be careful, then.”

“Right. Is that it, then?”

“I can think of nothing more. If she has other tricks hidden up her sleeve I do not know them.”

“I meant, is this goodbye? See you later?”

“Yes, tis time for me to run along and catch up with the others before they outpace me. They are not patient.” She glanced toward the bridge, where Aedan and the dwarves were already crossing out of the ruins to the Imperial Highway leading north.

“Am I going to get a kiss goodbye or are you going to send me off to my certain doom feeling sad and underappreciated?”

“You know I dislike when you play the sad puppy, Alistair. Tis most unattractive. But yes, you may have your kiss, if you do not find such a thing too ghoulish considering that you are hunting down my mother. Did you not once call my indifference to her passing ‘creepy’?”

“Is this really the time to argue about that? I’m sorry, I had no idea how terrible of a mother she was.”

“Very well, I shall forgive you,” she said, and stepped forward, reaching up to pull him down into a kiss.

In his bulky armor he could not embrace her properly, but he pulled her as close as he could and held the kiss for as long she let him.


	10. Perhaps Even Three (Redcliffe)

Traveling out of the wilds in the company of Aedan Cousland and the dwarves was awkward, to say the least.

Once upon a time, not so very many weeks ago, the Cousland boy had been enamoured with Morrigan. His attention had not been unwelcome, though she had sensed his fascination with her was fleeting and capricious, like that of so many men.

He was used to bedding insipid maidservants and ladies-in-waiting at his father’s castle, and it showed in his attitude towards her after his pursuit proved successful. What began with compliments and gifts turned to disdain and demands quickly enough.

He had not disappointed her, for disappointment requires there to be some measure of positive expectation.

She had expected him to be vain and arrogant. He had not disappointed her at all.

Now his attitude towards her was one of sullen hostility. He could not stand that she had refused to be treated like a common tart, that she did not view her own value as being tied to keeping his approval, and that she did not react to his coldness with self-doubt or try to win his lost affections back.

The dwarves had always been indifferent towards her, though with the dwindling of their company, Natia became more vocal. Soon after departing Ostagar she tried to strike up a conversation, venturing to tell Morrigan that it wasn't considered a bad thing, in Orzammar, to be a noble hunter.

“I am no noble hunter,” Morrigan responded, hackles raised. “I do not sell myself to men in the hope of improving my worth in the eyes of society.”

“Oh? Why do you do it, then?” Natia asked, her eyes wide.

“Away with your and your thinly veiled insults.”

That had ended Natia’s attempts at making conversation on the road.

Morrigan could not deny that it must look to others as if she had chased first one noble boy and then the other. Truly that was not the case. She’d done no hunting, no chasing. Both of them had come to her. And from what she understood of Fereldan society, Alistair was no noble. A king’s son, yes, but his illegitimacy overrode the rest.

Morrigan wondered, after having snapped at Brosca and driven her away, if her words were possibly meant to establish some form of camaraderie. Twas hard to see beyond the surface, but perhaps Natia thought to congratulate her and in fact found her supposed conquests admirable, from her odd dwarven perspective. Perhaps twould not have been unwise to accept the words as meant rather than taking offense?

The sexual mores of underground dwarves mattered little to Morrigan. Her mother had taught her everything she needed to know about the realities of the surface world and the men that inhabited it. But though Natia was clumsy with her words, an offer of friendship from that quarter would not be wholly unwelcome.

Morrigan had once thought she needed no friends among the Grey Wardens, but she found that she now missed the presence of Lythra Mahariel among the group. Twas most unfortunate when Lythra headed off into the Brecilian. She had truly been the only woman in their company Morrigan felt she might be comfortable confiding in.

She had almost been friends with Nelmirea, the elven mage, going so far as to teach her to shapeshift. But Nelmirea had been deeply offended when Morrigan suggested they leave the Circle to its fate and there was no forgiveness to be found there, even in halting attempts at civility. The Circle mages had closed ranks since their visit there, for they resented the freedom she had always known as an apostate, as if she was responsible for their sad upbringing. She cared not.

Morrigan had offered to go with Lythra to seek the Dalish, but had been told there was no need. She said that she wanted to keep the envoy into the Dalish territories as small and mostly elven as possible, and as they already had two mages, Morrigan should stay with the others.

She had been on the verge of telling Lythra about what she had discovered in her mother’s grimoire; the terrible truth of Flemeth’s nature and her intentions for Morrigan. She wanted to ask for Lythra’s help, though she felt keenly that she was derailing the mission to stop the Blight and hated begging others to fight her battles for her. She’d said nothing about it, in the end, only wished Lythra good luck and safe travels through the forest, to which Lythra had responded that it was her home and she would always be safest there.

Now Alistair had taken it upon himself to foolishly play the valiant hero and slay her mother for her. How she hated him for this. She should not have told him. She should have known it would make him insufferable.

He was a fool who fell in love with anyone who showed him a shred of kindness. She had known this about him and knowing this had still taken him to bed, assuring herself that twas not a terrible mistake. Not yet. She could control him and twould all be fine, she had thought.

It most certainly was not fine.

Now he would probably die in the swamp and the other Grey Wardens would hold her responsible. She knew what they were already saying and thinking;  _ Morrigan and her evil cunt lured a good man to his death. What an evil bitch. _

Twas a small mercy that Leliana and Wynne had gone with Alistiar. Twas not surprising that those two would follow him into idiocy, seeing as how they had appointed themselves surrogate sister and mother to him. She could only imagine what they had said to try to dissuade him from going into the Wilds. It had only made him more stubborn, though.

Did he really think that he loved her? She could not imagine it to be so. He had not said the words, but why else would he insist on playing the hero for her? Why else turn away from the mission to stop the Blight and risk all just to kill a reclusive witch deep in the Wilds? She could think of no benefit to him besides what he imagined might be her undying gratitude.

She would not feel guilty about this. She had told him not to do it. She had warned him not to become sentimental.

She had not asked for this.

When he had knocked on her door in Denerim she had not been wholly unsurprised.

She was not unaware of the way he stared at her, or what it meant, for many men had stared at her that way before. Whenever she had left the shelter of Flemeth’s hut and ventured out to meet Wilder folk—or, farther north, the “civilized” people of Ferelden—she had encountered the roving, lustful eyes of men. Alistair was utterly incapable of keeping his eyes to himself, and she had quite often caught him staring after her and after Lythra, though he turned red and denied it when called out.

But whatever desires her appearance had stoked in him, he had always been plain about his distrust of her as a mage, and general dislike of her as a person. From the beginning he denounced her as a sneaky-witch-thief, with all the eloquence of a turnip who had just learned to speak.

She had not expected things to improve between them after that. They could not find common ground. He was a templar in all the ways that mattered to her, and she was an apostate, an evil maleficar, in all the ways that mattered to him.

And yet, she understood that twould only require the right circumstance for him to give in to base, primal desire. Passion did not, after all, require affection.

She had not sought to seduce him nor had she issued any invitation.

She had, of course,  _ considered _ the possibility. Though she had found many reasons to dislike him, he was handsome and athletic, and she felt she could hardly be blamed for speculating on his aptitude in bed, or for thinking there was a likelihood that she would enjoy him.

And he was a Grey Warden, which made him suitable for the ritual her mother had described to her.

In Denerim he had come to her door breathing heavily, eyes wide, as if he’d been jogging in circles round the inn trying to work up the courage to throw himself upon her. How could she refuse such a tempting offer? He was finally ready to taste the forbidden fruit of apostasy, and so very eager.

Mother would be proud of her, in her own perverse way, when he showed up in the Wilds, ready to kill for Morrigan.

She had done the exact sort of thing Flemeth had taught her to do with men, even if this had not been precisely what Flemeth had wanted when she sent Morrigan off with the Grey Wardens.

Morrigan was not supposed to get her Grey Warden lover killed, at least not until after he had served his final purpose. But Flemeth would likely shrug and think “ah well, there will be others” before killing him with a gust of dragon fire.

In the end Morrigan was still her mother’s daughter. She had used a man up and killed him, however inadvertently. She’d had her way with him and then sent him back into the Wilds, a simple-minded, sex-addled fool who had been a virgin two weeks ago and was now marching against a witch who would surely end his short life. How Flemeth would laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Meanwhile, Morrigan was making a diagonal path through the Hinterlands, traveling away from her ill-fated lover without so much as a look back.

Aedan and Duran had argued for a while about whether to stick to the Imperial highway, which meant traveling north and then west, versus cutting a northwestern path through the backroads of southern Ferelden. The back way was arguably more direct and therefore quicker, but the roads were less clear and there was far greater danger of running into marauding darkspawn.

In the end Aedan’s argument for the Hinterlands won out, since the Imperial highway carried with it the added danger of running into Loghain’s assassins. As soon as they reached the ruin of what had once been the small village of King’s Rest they left the Highway and followed minor roads past burned and blighted farmland.

They were now only four people, six if one counted the dwarven merchant and his son, whose wagon was never far behind. Twas a marked change from when the Grey Warden company had swelled to a small army of nearly twenty fighters.

The Wardens were all spread out, now; some in the Brecilian, some in the Wilds, and some in the Hinterlands. Now more than ever it seemed they were doomed to failure. Morrigan thought that it might never even matter what nefarious plans Flemeth had for her, since they’d all get swallowed up by the Blight soon enough. That is what was bound to happen when the fate of the world rested upon the shoulders of a band of junior Wardens and the assorted idiots they were able to pick up along the way.

These thoughts plagued Morrigan all the way up to Redcliffe.

When they arrived at the castle, they found that nothing had changed with the Arl. Eamon still held steady in a comatose state, watched over by his younger brother and recently depossessed son.

Aedan’s twin sister was also present, and had clearly made herself at home in the months since they had left her there. In Isolde’s absence she had become the unofficial lady of the house, busying herself by restoring the castle and the staff, both of which had fallen into ruin.

Morrigan felt out of place amongst both the nobles and the new serving staff. She was not so preoccupied with politics that she cared for Duran, Aedan, and Teagan’s discussions on how to restore the Cousland family castle and defeat Loghain, nor did she find Elissa Cousland particularly interesting.

Natia seemed to feel the same, for they found themselves retreating from the castle into the outdoors. Morrigan thought to find seclusion in the Redcliffe garden, which was sorely neglected and in a state of overgrown disarray. Elissa’s repair efforts had not yet reached this far. Morrigan preferred it that way. It reminded her of home.

She was surprised to find Natia in the garden. She might have expected the dwarf to retreat to the cellar, or somewhere else indoors, where the sky could not threaten to swallow her up. But perhaps Natia was no longer afraid of the sky, having now spent so much time under it.

Morrigan remembered once again how Natia had cheerfully told her that noble-hunting wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, and sighed.

“Do you have plans to hunt a noble of your own?” she asked, approaching the dwarf, hoping her tone sounded curious rather than hostile.

Natia, who had been inspecting a forsythia bush, turned around and looked at Morrigan with surprise. “What?”

“On the road, a few days back, you mentioned the dwarven custom of noble-hunting in a positive light,” Morrigan reminded her. “I was merely curious if you intend to be the second of your family to unite with an Aeducan.”

“Oh.” Natia paused, scrunched up her face in something approaching thoughtfulness, then burst out laughing. “Ancestors,” she said, “I had never even considered it! Me? With Duran Aeducan?” She laughed again, seeming unable to put the absurdity of such an idea into words.

“I see.”

“No offense, but puffed up nobles are not my type.”

“I do not know why I would take offense at that.”

“Aedan Cousland is the puffiest puffed-up noble I’ve yet to meet,” Natia said.

Morrigan sniffed. She didn’t want to have to explain herself to Natia, but perhaps that’s what was required if they were to become amicable. “He has some redeemable qualities. His skill with the blade, for instance. He did save your life after Ostagar, did he not?”

“Uh, if you listen to him tell the story,” Natia said. “We were doing just fine, running away from the darkspawn army. He was the one running the wrong way, going towards the horde. Don’t get me wrong, we appreciated the extra blade, and his mabari, but it’s not as if we were crawling on our hands and knees and he swooped in like a dragon to carry us away to safety.”

“I suppose not. He does tell it as if you would all have died had he not crossed paths with you while searching for his brother.”

Natia shrugged. “Getting out of Ostagar was tough. Still can’t believe we went back.”

“Twas Alistair’s wish.”

“Yes, I know  _ why _ we went back, just… oh nevermind.” Natia shook her head, then abruptly changed the subject. “So, Alistair, huh. I’ve been wondering what that’s about.”

“What Alistair is about? I thought it rather obvious. He is not an overly complicated person.”

“I mean, you and him. Don’t bite my head off or anything but you went from ‘Oh Alistair is such an ass I hate him, he’s so stupid’ to sharing a tent every night. How does that happen?”

“I do not see the conflict.” Morrigan sniffed and brushed a falling leaf off her shoulder, then gazed up at the offending tree before elaborating; “He is quite a stupid ass, and I do rather hate him.”

“That’s not what it sounds like.”

“Sometimes, passion stems from darker wellsprings,” Morrigan said, and realized too late that she had quoted her mother. “Maybe you should try it,” she suggested, unwilling to be the only one under scrutiny.

“You’re talking about Duran again? Ugh. No thank you. I mean it. I can’t imagine passion springing from the amount of irritation I feel every time he calls me Duster.”

“I am surprised to hear you deny the idea so vehemently. You two always stick quite close together.”

“That’s because, I don’t know, we’re the only dwarves around, besides those merchants, and I don’t understand you surfacers,” Natia said, stammering and waving one hand. “Duran is a pompous piece of shit from the Diamond Quarter but at least he  _ knows _ what I’m talking about most of the time. Anyway, he’s basically my brother-in-law now, even though he was made casteless and technically isn’t part of House Aeducan anymore. But, you know, it still counts. It’d be weird.”

“I was merely suggesting that you give it a try, I am not pushing you towards it. Though, who knows, you may not find him so disagreeable after you have bedded him.”

“Yuck.”

“I will speak no more of it.”

Natia nodded, then asked, “So, are we friends now, or what? Is this what women friends do, sit around and gossip about men?”

“Twould seem so, though I do believe there are other topics to discuss.”

“Yeah. Like… how about those darkspawn, huh? Seen any undead, lately? My mom’s a real bitch, what you about yours? Hah, that’s a joke. You don’t have to answer.”

“I see.”

“Oh I’ve got one. What’s it like to dream? If you go to the fade when you sleep doesn’t that mean you never really sleep, your mind is always awake? I don’t get that.”

“Tis not exactly like being awake. And not every moment of sleep is spent in the fade.”

“I still can’t imagine it, no matter how hard I try.” Natia sighed. “Anyway, sorry, I don’t talk to people a lot. Not even dwarves. Back home it was mostly just my sister and my buddy Leske. Didn’t need to be chummy with anybody else.”

“Two friends seems like an ample enough number,” said Morrigan.

“Right? But yeah... Oh! What is this? Can you tell me?” Natia motioned to the bush.

“Tis a forsythia bush,” Morrigan told her. “Do you have an interest in plants?”

“Oh boy, do I ever!” Natia beamed. “We don’t have plants down below, you know? I mean, not like up on the surface. We have mosses and lichens, but there’s no sunlight, so… see, dwarves talk about the sky a lot and how scary it is but they don’t ever tell you how all the stone is covered in plants. Trees and grasses and flowers and bushes and… ancestors, you should have seen me back when I first popped up from underground. Duncan had a hard time calming me down. It’s just so  _ different. _ Like, you can hear rumors about it, but it’s nothing like seeing it for the first time.”

Twas difficult for Morrigan to imagine not knowing what plants looked like. She had always walked in the wilds, smelling and seeing and touching the flora that grew there. When they went down into Orzammar she got a taste of what the dwarven world was like; a world of lava and stone, where looking up meant seeing darkness as if twere always night.

As foreign as the majestic caverns of the dwarves were, it probably did not compare to emerging into the sun for the first time. She envied Brosca that experience, suddenly. She had certainly had her share of first encounters, growing up in the Wilds and not ever seeing a proper human city until Denerim, but still. It did not compare. Natia’s unabashed wonder at something so mundane as trees and grass filled Morrigan with a desire to one day be able to walk into a place so vastly alien to her understanding that it took her breath entirely away.

“You probably think I sound like an idiot,” said Natia.

“No. Your curiosity does you credit. An idiot is one who makes his mind up about something he does not understand.”

“Heh. I like that.”

“If you have questions about plants you may ask me at any time. I am sure that Lythra could also answer any query about the wild wood, provided we ever see that third of our merry band again.”

“Yes! I noticed that you two were more, oh I don’t know what to call it… woodsy? The rest of the surfacers seem to come from cities or chantries.”

“Indeed.”

And so, as easy as that, Morrigan now had two friends. Perhaps even three, if she were to count Alistair.

Twas a surprise to name him thus, and she did not know if she could. She did not like him. He did not like her. His soft touches when they lay together in the aftermath of rougher passions were merely a pantomime of affection. When he spoke kindly to her and smiled at her he was forgetting himself, forgetting to whom he spoke. He could not truly view her as anything other than what she was, a woman outside his understanding who confounded all his ideas of what was right in the world. Their bodies were suited to each other but their minds were not.

Perhaps she was also forgetting herself, in the midst of these thoughts. She was placing too much importance on the idea of what exactly they were becoming to each other. They need not be friends. It invited disappointment. Better to think of him as something else.


	11. Lovesick Fools (Redcliffe)

Aedan wanted to set out for Haven first thing the next day, only pausing in Redcliffe long enough to catch up with Teagan and Elissa and get some rest before pushing onwards. But Morrigan refused to accompany him so soon.

If Alistair and the others were successful, they would only be a day or two behind them. She would wait three days before worrying that something bad had befallen them, whether in the Wilds or on the roads between Ostagar and Redcliffe. She would give it four or five days before she truly despaired.

“Five days lolly-gagging around Redcliffe waiting for Alistair?” Aedan said. “We’ve already wasted enough time.”

“Go if you must,” Morrigan responded. “I do not care what you do.”

He frowned in a thin line. Morrigan knew that despite their abortive romantic history, he needed her if he hoped to be successful in finding the ashes. She was the only mage left.

“You and Alistair are the ones who value Arl Eamon and need him to recover,” Morrigan said. “Perhaps there is healing magic in these ashes, tis a strange thought but when magic is involved one cannot rule out the possibilities. But I’ve made it clear before that I find this whole endeavor to be pointless.”

“You’re one to talk about pointless endeavors,” Aedan shot back, “seeing as we lost Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to you needing to have revenge on your mother for being mean to you when you were a little girl.”

She regretted having told Aedan stories of her mother. She might have guessed he would use such personal information as a weapon. But she resisted his attempts to rile her up with cutting words and only said, “You may shout at Alistair about this if he returns. I do not care.”

Aedan backed down. “Four days, then? And if they do not return?”

It was an uncomfortable thought that she had been turning over in her head, but she had yet to vocalize it. “If they do not return, then my mother knows I have discovered her plot. I…” Morrigan trailed off, not wanting to invite further ire.   


“Are you going to leave?” he asked. “I mean leave us all, disappear…”

She allowed herself a smug smile, though the line of thinking was grim. “Would that please you? Or would you miss being able to gnash your teeth at me and writhe about in jealousy?”

“You think too highly of yourself,” he spat. “I’m not jealous. I’m just disappointed that Alistair fell into your trap.”

“A pity you did not work harder to spare him from my evil clutches, then. Or do I overestimate your fondness for each other? Perhaps your protests backfired. What is a friend’s concern versus the allure of a nefarious woman, hmm?”

“Will you still joke like this if he dies?”

“If you are that concerned for him I wonder why you did not go along to protect him.”

“You can’t bait me, Morrigan. Alistair is being an idiot. It saddens me, but I’m not as devoted to saving him from his own folly as Leliana and Wynne are.”

“I am not naive, Lord Cousland. I think you would throw him to Loghain’s dogs if it benefited you.”

“Stop trying to goad me. Tell me your plans. That’s all I care to know about what you think.”

“If my mother lives I will forever be fearful of her,” Morrigan said with blunt honesty. “If this attempt fails, I will be forced to try a different path.”

“One that doesn’t align with the Grey Wardens’ priorities.”

“So it would seem. And you? Will you still fight beside the Wardens if their interests do not align with your own?”

“The fact that you even need to ask…” He shook his head. “Ferelden is my homeland and I won’t see it destroyed.”

“I did not imply that you would. But you have been unhappy with the Wardens as of late.”

“Just Alistair.”

She smiled, knowing she was about to provoke him. “But Alistair is their leader, is he not?”

Aedan snorted. “In name, only. You don’t honestly think he is in charge.”

“Nor are you. If you were, you would have stopped him from pursuing Flemeth on my account, and he would have listened.”

“I think you have him so besotted with you that he’d abandon the Wardens for you.”

She laughed. “My powers know no bounds, it seems.”

“What are your intentions with him? If he does come back?”

“As if I would tell you.”

“This isn’t forever. I know he’s just a passing fancy. A plaything. When will you grow bored and move on to other prey?”

“Tis none of your concern.”

“No, it is, actually. Alistair is the only one with a claim to the throne that can go up against Loghain. He’s a fool but he’s a royal fool and that’s important.”

Morrigan affected a yawn. “I am not interested in the royal games you wish to play.”

“You should be interested. You’ve gotten yourself involved.”

“What do you wish me to say, Aedan? That I will step aside and release Alistair from the spell I have no doubt cast over him?”

“Yes!” Aedan threw up his hands in exasperation. “You say it like a jest, but that is exactly what I want.”

“Then acquaint yourself further with disappointment. Do not meddle in my affairs.”

“You and I both know there’s no future to this.”

“Then you should have nothing to worry about.”

“You should end it now before you’ve done too much damage.”

“If he survives this encounter with my mother, I fail to see what further damage I could do.”

“Yes, it’s a big if, isn’t it? But let’s say they are successful, your mother is dead, you are happy and free. What further use do you have for him?”

“Shall I give you the details? Do you wish to know how your friend compares to you in bed? Do you often think of Alistair in bed?”

“Spare me. You’ll get tired of him at some point. I’m just asking you to make it sooner, rather than later.”

“And what is in this arrangement for me?” she asked, crossing her arms and arching one brow. “I give up my plaything before I am bored with him, and you are made happy, but what about me?”

She affected an exaggerated pout and melancholy whine to hammer home the fact that she was mocking him, but he responded, without hesitation, “Name your price.”

“I can think of nothing that is in your power to give which interests me,” she said in a flat voice. “Now I think I am done with this conversation.”

She turned round and transformed into a raven before he could get another word in. With a few wing flaps she was rid of him, and she flew from the castle, gliding across Lake Calenhad and soaring above Redcliffe Village. She perched in a tree and ruffled her feathers, then cocked her head to the side and observed the goings on of the town.

Morrigan did not care, per se, what the villagers were up to. But watching them go about their day, oblivious to her, was soothing. She watched them at their mundane tasks; gathering sticks, gardening, hauling water up from the well, greeting each other as they met, stopping to talk. Mabari played with children in the street.

In the trees around her, other birds were busy tending to their own lives. Much like the villagers below, this involved rebuilding nests, boring holes in the bark to root out bugs for dinner, and singing to one another. The steady pulse of life was presently uninterrupted by darkspawn or undead, though this was sure to change as the Blight spread. This entire village was bound to fall, like Lothering and Crestwood and all the smaller hamlets they had passed through on their way across the Hinterlands. Unless of course they found a way to unite Ferelden and fight against it.

Morrigan thought about where she would go when the inevitable happened and Ferelden did fall. She had never been far beyond the Wilds, so Ferelden was all she knew. There were the Frostbacks with their fierce avvar tribes to the west, and beyond that, the Dales and Orlais. To the north was the Free Marches, a destination many people whom they had encountered were fleeing to already. And there were many more places beyond.

Flemeth had told her of the past Blights. They lasted many years, and had swallowed up entire countries which still bore the scars hundreds of generations later. Twas foolhardly to think that they would escape such prolonged suffering. Ferelden would fall, despite the best efforts of these few Wardens, and then the Wardens of the rest of the world would be tasked with preventing their lands from suffering the same fate.

Aedan said that there could be no future to her association with Alistair, but Flemeth had made it clear that in order to serve her purpose, she must stick close to the Wardens. Even if Ferelden fell, they might retreat, recognizing the lost cause, and travel to meet with the others of their Order who had been barred entry by Loghain. She needed to stay with the Wardens until the archdemon could be cornered and slain. This was the goal, one she must not lose sight of, but it also meant that keeping Alistair close was beneficial for the time being.

He was hers, now, as much as any man she’d ever bedded could be considered hers. He had a disposition given to loyalty and that should make her task almost too easy, provided he did not get himself killed. But this thought filled her with an anxious, unsettled feeling.

Twas not just that he was foolhardy and might not survive, but everything about his behavior troubled her of late. Twas the way he smiled at her instead of quickly looking away whenever she met his gaze. The way he noticed when she had failed to come to the soup pot to get some dinner and the way he hugged her in the night even after he had taken his pleasure and should have had no more use for her. Twas the way he reached out to touch her when she drew near, even if they were picking through the pockets of dead bandits looking for spare sovereigns or gathering elfroot and blood lotus for poultices and poisons on the side of the road.

It should have pleased her to find a Warden who would be sure to do what she asked when the time came. But it did not. He was like a bird, happily building a nest, thinking he had found a mate. She admired birds, watching them living out their simple lives, but such behavior was only charming in a species with tiny instinct driven brains. She was human. Twas not that simple.

Flemeth might already be dead, with any luck. Morrigan didn’t have to listen to her. She turned this thought over in her mind. Flemeth’s teachings were valuable, but they were not the end all, be all. Without her in the world to guide Morrigan’s steps, who knew where she could go? She did not need to manipulate a man to put his seed inside her at just the right moment so that she could grow a vessel for an ancient soul. That was Flemeth’s desire, and she was not Flemeth. She would  _ never _ be Flemeth.

Still, the idea of preserving and nurturing the soul of the Old God was not without its appeal to her. Such ancient magic was dwindling in the world and twould be within her power to save it, if what Flemeth claimed to be true was indeed so.

She wished very much to have a chance to read Flemeth’s real grimoire, and once again felt a pang of frustration that she dare not be near her mother in her final moments. She could not risk it, but she also wondered if Alistair would honor her request to retrieve the book. He did not trust magic unbound from the Circle, and might destroy it or claim to not have been able to find it. She should not have told him of the book, she thought, anxious. Better to have him think that killing Flemeth was all that was required, and if he succeeded, she could go back home and search for the grimoire on her own.

Twas too late for such regret, however. All she could do was wait.

She returned to the castle to get her things, after having left in a huff in raven form. But her visit was brief, and she told Natia that she would be close by if she were needed. She did not want to stay in the castle for days.

She had no desire to speak with Aedan again, or to awkwardly hang about the castle. Elissa, especially, was difficult to speak to, as Morrigan was aware that Aedan wished to make her Alistair’s bride and subsequently Ferelden’s queen.

Morrigan had stolen nothing from Elissa, and she should have been able to look her in the eye without shame or remorse. But she found it difficult to carry on a conversation, feeling at every moment that they were dancing around something, speaking frivolity into the air to cover up unease.

The worst part was that she did not even know if Elissa knew of the change in relationships since last they had left Redcliffe.

That seemed a lifetime ago. It had taken them many weeks of traveling to visit Orzammar, Kinloch Hold, Ostagar, and Denerim, before circling back to Redcliffe. The fact that Eamon still clung to life was remarkable. But when they had left Elissa behind, Morrigan and Aedan had still been quite chummy. He had still been working to ingratiate himself to her and she had been amenable to his attentions. Alistair had been an irritation, easily ignored.

No, that was not true. He had never been easy to ignore.

Morrigan gave no update on her personal life, now, and did not ask Elissa what her brother had told her about events. She did not want to know. She did not want to know if Elissa cared one way or the other.

She had no intention of keeping Alistair to herself forever. True, she did not want him insulting her by paying attention to others, but she would of course release him in time. Likely when the Blight was over and she had no need of Wardens anymore, but perhaps before then, if things became intolerable between them. Whatever prompted it, an end would come. But she would do nothing at Aedan or Elissa Cousland’s bidding. That was for certain.

As soon as she had her pack she hiked back out to the village, and made herself a small camp on the outskirts, in a place where she could watch the roads from the east for travelers.

As she dug around in her pack to get her things in order, her hand touched the golden mirror Aedan had bought her in Orzammar. She could hardly stand to look at herself in the reflection. It reminded her all at once of her mother’s cruelty, her own childish naivete, and the fact that Aedan had seemed kind and thoughtful at the time. Even after they had quarreled and she had ended things, she had kept the mirror, for twas a valuable gift and she did not see the sense in discarding it along with the man who had given it to her.

She sneered at herself in the mirror. Flemeth had been right to smash the original all those years ago. She had been foolish, she had endangered herself and her mother for a meaningless bauble. She had taken the lesson to heart, she had learned it well. Some things, fragile foolish things, were not worth the risk.

Impulsively, she flipped the mirror over and shattered it upon the sharp edge of a rock. The shards of glass fell into the grass, reflecting the sunlight back up at her, and she lifted the mirror again and again, bringing it down harshly upon the rock until the golden handle was mangled. Twas not gold all the way through, or twould have been too solid to break so easily. Below the fine gold plating with its design of frolicing deer and sparrows was a core of cheap pewter.

How fitting.

* * *

Natia came to her camp on the morning of the second day, saying it was too boring in the castle, and she spent the entire day there, exploring the woods or chattering comfortably while Morrigan watched the road. She talked at length about Orzammar, and her homesickness was palpable, especially when she described Leske and Rica. Morrigan did not say much. She had no close friends or siblings from her former life and so could not relate. She’d known the nearby packs of wolves better than any humans, and if she missed anything it was running with them at night, singing to the moon.

When it became too dark to watch the road, they sat by a campfire and listened to the night noises around them. Redcliffe village had fallen silent, torches extinguished and houses shuttered, as if the fear of the undead had never gone away. Twas peaceful and pleasant.

Eventually, Natia said to her, “When we go back to Orzammar, if they still haven’t made anyone King, will you speak in favor of Prince Bhelan?”

“I am not a Grey Warden,” said Morrigan. “I accompany you on your journeys and help in your battles but I do not get a say in what you do. You must decide yourselves who will be most likely to help you.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t give your opinion,” laughed Natia. “Besides, you’re close to Alistair. He’d listen to you.”

“Alistair does not listen to me, but more to the point, he does not care who is king in Orzammar and doesn’t want to be involved. I fear this is a matter that you and Duran must work out on your own, if it comes to that.”

“It would help if all the other Wardens were on my side,” Natia mumbled, looking into Morrigan’s campfire morosely.

“What will happen to your sister if Harrowmont is made King?”

“I do not know. I fear that he will want to make her and her child disappear. Duran thinks I am unreasonable, he thinks Harrowmont is honorable and will elevate Rica regardless. But I don’t know. Rica said that Bhelan was going to do things to make it better for the casteless, that she was talking to him about Dust Town, and he was listening.”

“Does it matter a great deal to you, what happens in Dust Town?” Morrigan asked, remembering the depressing crevasse that ran below the city, housing the derelicts of dwarven society. Twas filled with criminals, drunks, and beggars. She had felt venturing there to be a waste of time, but as twas Natia’s home they had gone down to visit her harridan of a mother. Rica, her sister, had been gone, moved up to the palace to be with her noble lover.

“Rica’s all that matters to me,” said Natia. “She wants Bhelan, and she cares about Dust Town. I stand behind her. It’s that simple.”

Morrigan thought on this for a moment. Twas so easy for these people to latch onto one other person and let that guide them through life. But she had witnessed how terrible it was for those who lost that guiding light. For Lythra it had been her friend and love, Tamlen, and for Alistair it had been his mentor, Duncan. She’d watched them both grieving in their own ways, and was glad she had no one so important to her that she was undone by their passing and unmoored by the loss of their influence.

If Rica were to fall prey to the machinations of dwarven politics, would Natia care about any of it, anymore? Would she honor Rica’s memory by becoming a crusader for the Dusters? Twas unlikely, and if so, in Morrigan’s estimation that meant she did not truly care at all.

Many in their company had accused her of being uncaring at one point or another, but Morrigan did not understand how others could consider themselves righteous when their concerns were self-interested in the end. She had things she cared about. Magic and the ancient things lost to time, ideas and knowledge that were being ground out by the increasingly mundane world. This would not change based on who lived and died. She was constant, not callous.

“If tis in my power to make any suggestion which will guide the others towards speaking for Prince Bhelan, I will,” she agreed. “But I must be honest with you, I share Alistair’s hope that the situation will be remedied by the time we return and we will not need to tarry long. They are foolish to squabble over succession while the world burns.”

“Maybe so. But it’s not as if you surfacers aren’t doing the exact same thing.”

Morrigan smiled and shook her head. The idea of all the surface dwelling races and nations of Thedas being the same was amusing. Lythra would have a thing, or twenty, to say about that.

Natia eventually stood to go, pausing to look at the star speckled sky and ask, “Are you really going to sleep out here every night while you wait?”

“Yes. I prefer it. The castle is too… tis too constricting.”

“I like it,” said Natia. “I like the stone walls. Feels almost like home, if I don’t look out a window.”

“And yet you spent the entire day out here, under the sky.”

“The company was better than back at the castle.”

* * *

It took four days for Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to appear on the road.

Morrigan had not left.

She did not go back to the castle, but Natia had come again on the third day. She said that Aedan was growing restless and wanted to go search for the ashes. They would be leaving in the morning on the fourth day, and Natia asked where Morrigan would go if Alistair did not return.

“I cannot say,” Morrigan told her. “I do not know. Somewhere far away, where my mother cannot easily find me.”

“Don’t you think you’ll be safer with us?” Natia said, though she sounded uncertain. “I’ve never had to deal with a dragon witch before, but, you know… there’s strength in numbers.”

“A group is easier to find, especially one traveling round attempting to gather an army,” said Morrigan, shaking her head. “And besides, I know you do not want to face my mother’s fury. You said as much back at Ostagar.”

“There’s just so few of us, now,” Natia sighed. “I want to wait until Lythra returns, at least, but Cousland fears the Arl’s death might doom us. He must be a very important man.”

“So it seems.” Both Aedan and Alistair placed a great deal of hope in the Arl, as if he would rise from his deathbed and single handedly put an end to Loghain’s machinations, forcing the Fereldans to rally behind the Wardens overnight, executing Rendon Howe, and restoring Cousland’s castle to the twins within the week.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye, then,” said Natia, awkwardly shifting back and forth. “It’s a shame. I was just starting to think you weren’t half bad.”

“You do not have to go to Haven with him if you do not want to. You could wait here for Lythra and the others.”

“No, I think I do have to go,” Natia said sadly. “I can’t just sit in one place and do nothing. The waiting is worse than any darkspawn.”

“In a way, I suppose tis true,” Morrigan agreed.

There was no telling how long it would be before Lythra and her crew made it back to this rendezvous point. Their foray into the Brecilian looking for the Dalish was not so straightforward as Alistair looking for Flemeth. The Dalish were nomadic and the Brecilian was large.

But she continued to wait even after Natia left her camp. Three days was not so very long, perhaps. There were any number of reasons why it might take then that long to return. They might be slowed down by darkspawn in the wilds. They might have taken a longer route to get to Redcliffe. Or they might have taken extra time to recover from wounds after battling Flemeth. Wynne was a talented healer, Morrigan did not deny it, but after a fight with Flemeth they would doubtless need to camp a while before striking out again.

Yes, three days was not so very long. Aedan was impatient and too eager to abandon all hope. She would wait.

Twas midafternoon the next day when she saw them. She had once again taken the raven’s form in order to perch high above in the tree trops or meander on the air currents, watching the world below. So she saw them from a distance, before they crossed over into the village, and she flew down to meet them.

Alistair staggered back when she appeared on the road before him. Barkspawn woofed happily and bounded up to meet her, planting his great big paws on her shoulders and nearly knocking her over. “Do not maul me with your joy, dog,” she said, but scratched behind his ears while dodging his slobbering mabari kisses.

“Barkspawn! Get down.” Alistair shouted, and the mabari flattened his ears and jumped away, wagging his stubby tail contritely.

Then he was before her, smiling, and Morrigan hated the warmth that welled up inside her.

“Well? Is it done? Do not hold me in suspense,” she said. What she felt was only relief that this misadventure had not resulted in disaster.

“Hello Morrigan.”

“You are all alive, therefore I can only guess you have been successful, or my mother was not to be found at home. Tell me now.”

“I am tired,” said Wynne from behind Alistair. “I wish to return to the castle for a hot bath and a warm meal, so if you do not mind I’d rather not stand in the road talking.”

“Go on, do not let me stop you,” Morrigan said, waving her hand dismissively.

Leliana laughed a small, low chuckle, and linked her arm with Wynne’s, pulling the other woman along as she resumed walking down the road. “Come, Wynne, give them some privacy.”

Morrigan ignored the comment and kept her eyes on Alistair. His smile had not wavered, and he swung his pack around, unbuckling it and lifting the flap. She watched, willing patience, while he took a moment to dig around inside, before pulling out a large leather bound book.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” he said, holding it out.

Morrigan took it and ran her hand over the cover, feeling the stitches that depicted the leafless tree, not quite trusting in her eyes. Then she flipped it open, balancing the weight of it on one arm. Her mother’s handwriting was unmistakable, and the pages of the book even smelled like home; the combination of herbs and woodsmoke which conjured countless memories of a childhood growing up at her mother’s knee.

“Tis my mother’s book, truly,” she murmured in disbelief.

“You sound surprised. What did you think, that we’d spent all this time making a fake book to trick you?” Alistair asked. “I suppose Wynne could have written up some spells… but no.”

“She is dead then?” Morrigan lifted her eyes from the book and searched his face for the answer.

“Dead in a swamp, floating face down in the water,” he said. His smile vanished. “That’s what you wanted to hear, yeah?” There was an edge to his voice that she could not quite interpret.

“I…” She closed the book and held it to her chest. “I cannot quite imagine it. I did not think she would be so very easy to kill.”

“Easy? No. Dead, yes.”

Morrigan nodded. She had to believe him, for he had the book, and Flemeth would never have parted with it willingly, nor left it behind. “For now, at least,” she said. “I’ve no doubt she has some other trick to evade a true death. But losing the body she has inhabited till now will keep her down long enough for me to breathe easier, and with this book I hope to learn more of her secrets.”

“Great. I’m glad.” His smile did not return. He closed the pack and swung it onto his back again. “So that’s done, then.”

She felt there was some stilted awkwardness in the way he spoke, and moved, and then stood there simply waiting for a response. She was unsure what was expected of her, but laid aside any and all habitual pettiness, saying, “Thank you, Alistair. You have surprised me. I feared the worst. But this is a… this is a great favor, I cannot deny it. I cannot think of any way to repay you that matches the value of saving my life and bringing me this book.”

His reaction was not quite what she might have expected. He just sighed and said, “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do it so you’d be in my debt.”

“Regardless of intent, I am in your debt. That is unequal footing I do not like. I will repay you.”

“Right now I want the same thing Wynne does, some food and a bath in the castle. Oh, and I hope Eamon is still alive and Connor hasn’t been repossessed? No hordes of undead attacking the village this time?”

“All is quiet in Redcliffe.”

“Good.”

He started to walk down the road, and she turned to walk beside him, keeping pace. Barkspawn trotted along with them. Morrigan realized that despite the privacy Leliana had granted them by walking ahead with Wynne, their greeting had been distant and overly polite. Friendly, but formal. Perhaps Alistair hoped for something more, but she did not feel comfortable flinging her arms round his neck or kissing him on the road into town, with the midday sun bearing down on them, like a swooning, lovesick girl.

Embraces and passionate kisses were a private thing to do in the dark of the night, behind closed doors or in the shelter of a tent. She did not see the point of excessive touching for simple greetings, though she realized Alistair probably did not feel the same way. She recalled how tightly he had held her and how long he had lingered over their farewell kiss before venturing into the wilds. She had granted him that indulgence because he was likely going to die. But of course he had not. He was alive, and all was well, and they need not act foolishly.

“The others left for Haven this morning,” she said as they walked. “I did tell them to be patient, but Aedan would hear nothing of it, and so they have a head start. We may make up the time if you do not want to linger here in Redcliffe.”

“I did actually want to linger here in Redcliffe, at least for one night.”

“Tis up to you. I am in no great rush to retrieve these fabled ashes.”

“Actually I was hoping that Wynne might be able to do something for Eamon. She’s an exceptional healer. Maybe she can do what the others haven’t been able to manage.”

“Perhaps.” Morrigan considered the irony, for a moment, that Flemeth had been the mage most likely to know a way to heal the Arl. She was likely the more powerful and skilled mage there was in Ferelden, having many generations to hone her craft, but instead of doing anything with her stolen immortality she lived alone in the wilds, a reclusive figure of legend.

“I must retrieve my things,” she said, as they neared the spot where she had set up camp.

Alistair followed her off the road, and when he saw the camp in an alcove, said, “Why didn’t you stay at the castle? Teagan would have welcomed you there, surely…”

“I am more at home alone here,” she said, though she had hardly been alone the entire time, considering Natia’s visits.

“Huh. You are strange,” he said.

“Does a woman who prefers solitude really puzzle you that much?”

“It’s just that we have to sleep on the ground all the time and it’s rare we get a bed, much less a nice one.”

“You may loll about in one of Redcliffe’s ridiculously large and overly soft beds to your heart’s content,” she said. “I am unbothered by the more rugged accommodations of the wild. Tis all I knew for most of my life.”

“Now you make me sound like some pampered noble. I used to sleep in the kennels when I was a boy.”

“Did Isolde hate you that much? She would not even let you sleep indoors?”

“Well, it’s not because I had to. I had my own room in the castle before I was sent away to the Chantry. But there’s a loft in the barn that was nice in the summer months. I’d play with the dogs and then climb up and fall asleep in the hay, and in the morning I swung out of the loft on a rope.” A fond nostalgia crept into his voice as he spoke.

She merely listened, as she finished breaking down her tent and stuffed her things inside her pack. She carefully placed Flemeth’s grimoire alongside the book found at the Circle Tower.

In a more cheerful, forced tone, Alistair summarized, “And yes, then Eamon married Isolde and she despised me, so once she was pregnant with Connor she insisted I be sent away.”

“So twas Connor’s fault you were banished from your idyllic childhood home?” she asked, hoisting her pack and motioning that she was ready to return to the road.

“What? No. I mean, look I don’t blame Isolde for not wanting me around once her son was born. I was a bastard, and there’s nothing more useless to have hanging around than a noble bastard,” he said, walking with her.

“I suspect the ranks of the templars in the Chantry would be somewhat less robust without bastards.”

“Orphans and bastards and children whose parents cannot afford to keep them, yes. That’s the templars; the finest Ferelden has to offer.”

“A sad commentary on Ferelden.”

“You should visit Orlais. Or not. I hear it’s worse there, with all the chevaliers running amok.”

“I would like to see more of Thedas someday. If not the cities and the people, the wild places, then.”

“Maybe you’ll get your wish when the Blight drives us out of Ferelden.”

“My, my, so pessimistic. Have more confidence.” She did not tell him that she was all but counting on that eventuality. “You have defeated the Witch of the Wilds, with just a fraction of your collected forces. Surely you can defeat the darkspawn. You will even have me to help you.”

He chuckled softly.

“My mother,” she said, hesitant, but unable to contain her curiosity. “Was it a terrible battle? Did she… did you have a chance to speak to her? What I mean, is—”

“Did we tell her why we were attacking her?”

“I care not, I merely… forget it.”

“We did talk. She was expecting us, waiting for us. I didn’t have to tell her you had sent us; she already knew, somehow. Like she fully expected you to find out what she had in store and come after her.”

“I see.” That worried Morrigan, further fueling her suspicion that her mother would have a backup plan in place to ensure her continued survival.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Alistair sighed. “The battle was… it was a battle. I never want to see another dragon up close for as long as I live, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Tis most unfortunate, then, that the archdemon takes the form of a dragon, does it not?”

“Sometimes I think you don’t know when I’m joking.”

“I am usually aware of it, I merely do not find your jokes funny, except on rare occasions.”

“Hurtful.”

“Let my harsh critique influence you towards striving to become better. More witty. Or at least recognize when I am aware of your sarcasm and responding in kind.”

He bumped his arm against hers. His smile was warm as he glanced over at her, and Morrigan knew she was smiling back, foolishly. She carefully reset her features to a more neutral expression.

“I missed you,” he said.

She looked away, up at the inviting tree tops. When time stretched out and she still did not reply, Alistair cleared his throat and said, “Well, I’m going to go find Teagan as soon as we’re in the castle.”

She nodded.

“Then food and a bath.”

She nodded again.

“Will you…?”

“Will I what?”

“Where will you be?”

“I shall be about, in the castle,” she said.

“Not out in the woods, preferring solitude?”

They were at the drawbridge now, and she paused, wondering if she should be going inside. The gates yawned before her like the entrance to a cave. There was no telling what traps lay within.

“I shall be reading the book you have brought me. I may become quite absorbed in it.”

He brushed at her hand with his fingers, ever so lightly, and said, “Well if you can tear yourself away, I’ll be around, not preferring solitude.”

She finally looked back at him, and he leaned down to brush his lips against hers, with the same brief hesitance as he had touched her hand, then he turned away to enter the castle.

Morrigan followed him across the bridge.


	12. A Kindness You Can't Afford (Redcliffe)

Morrigan quietly pushed open the door to Alistair’s bedchamber just wide enough to allow entry, and slinked inside. All the rooms she had seen in Redcliffe Castle were richly furnished, and this chamber was no exception. What stood out immediately was a huge four poster bed and a blazing fire roaring in the hearth opposite. An oblong copper washtub had been brought in and set near the fire, and that is where Alistair could be found.

He was lying back, eyes closed, sunk down into the water up to his neck, surrounded by frothed soap bubbles. The water gave off steam in the air. “My my,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Here you are, already in a cauldron. Tis too easy. However shall I resist stirring you up into a witch’s brew?”

He opened his eyes and crooked one eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be… sexy?”

She put hands on her hips. “Or I could simply leave.”

He laughed softly and pushed himself up, sitting straighter, so the water only lapped around his chest. “No, no, stay. There’s plenty of room if you want to join me.”

She shed her clothes, each article of clothing falling to the floor as he watched with a smile.

She slipped into the water opposite him. There was indeed ample room in the tub, as if twere designed for a whole family to wash together. She leaned back and stretched out her legs, pressing her feet against Alistair’s chest, wiggling her toes.

He held her calves for a moment, stroking them, then pulled suddenly on her legs and she slipped into the water. She came up spluttering, pushing her wet hair from her face. He laughed, letting go, and she dove towards him, splashing water up into his face and slapping his shoulders. He circled both arms around her waist and she arched her back, straddling him, and his laughter stopped. She grabbed his hair in a one fist and pulled on it, tilting his head back and his face up, and with the other hand dug her fingers into the tender spot where neck met shoulder. She kissed him hard on the mouth. There was the taste of salt and soap on him, and he moaned as she held him against the back of the tub. Washwater slopped up and over the edge, splashing onto the stone floor, sizzling against the burning logs of the fire.

Morrigan felt carnivorous hunger for him, covering his face and neck in kisses and nips, and he shuddered, gripping her hips and pressing her into him, scrabbling to keep from slipping down into the water. She was sitting in his lap, now his cock pressed up along the side of her thigh, and he wriggled underneath her, trying to shift so that he could get some leverage. Morrigan kept a grip on his hair with one hand and dragged her fingers along his shoulder with the other, scratching just slightly enough to leave lines.

She pressed her palm against his bicep, adjusting her position against him, and rubbed her slit along the length of his cock. He squeezed her buttocks, pulling her legs into him, and she released her grip on his hair to hold the side of the tub. His mouth was slack and she bent forward to kiss him again, running her tongue around his lips before biting down on his lower lip, holding it between her teeth as she lowered herself down onto him, taking him inside. He held onto her hips under the water and rose to meet her as she moved back and forth, sending waves crashing up over the side of the tub.

She reached her climax quickly, and in the aftermath her kisses lost their urgency and passion, but she lay against him and kissed him softly, deeply, as the glow of post-coital satisfaction faded slowly. He returned her kisses, stroking her arms and legs and back, slipping one hand up between them to fondle her breasts. The tub was half empty now, the water having splashed repeatedly over the edges till it pooled on the flagstones and steamed in the heat of the fireplace.

“I think you missed me,” Alistair said, a whisper into her neck. She could hear the smile in his voice and feel his lips curve against her skin.

“Never,” she said, and he tweaked one nipple until she gasped. Then he slid his hand up to her throat and tugged her back down for another kiss. He was still hard and full of need. But now that she was satisfied she became aware of how uncomfortable and awkward the slippery copper tub was. She shook herself free and climbed from the tub to stand, dripping water onto the flagstones, before the hearth.

Alistair got out of the tub after her. There was a chair near the tub, between it and the fire, with a towel draped over it, and he pushed her towards it, bending her over the back. He put his fingers inside her at first, rubbing her clit with the pads and then thrusting them in up to the knuckles. She moaned and whimpered encouragingly, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, to drag herself along his fingers, until he took his cock in on hand and guided it back inside her. She gripped the back of the chair and bit her lip as he took her, keeping up a punishing rhythm that threatened to lift her off her feet and topple her over the chair.

When he was spent he staggered back and leaned against the outside of the tub. Morrigan turned and surveyed him. He was breathing hard, chest heaving from the exertion. She stepped towards him. She knew she could bring him back to arousal with a touch; if she ran her hands over his body and knelt to take his cock in her mouth she could revive him, make him hard again in a matter of minutes. There had been nights on the West Road when she had wanted to see just how many times Alistair could recover, captivated by the inhuman stamina his tainted blood granted him in battle and in bed. He had called her a tormentor, a wicked taskmaster, but had rallied to meet her demands every time.

She did want to torment him now. She stretched her arms across his shoulders and rested her cheek against his neck, sighing as she pressed her naked body up against his. He circled one arm around her waist and they stood that way for several moments, leaning against the tub, breathing growing steadier.

“My mother taught me all I know about men,” she said, softly, and she felt him tense when the words registered in his tired, sated mind.

She pulled back and looked at him, seeing wariness replacing pleasure in his eyes.

“Such as?”

“The purpose of sex,” she said, “the workings of bodies, how to please a man and how to torment him… what brings pleasure and what brings just the right amount of exquisite pain. How to touch, where to touch…”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She realized that she was shaking, and thought it must be because she was cold, standing naked there out of the bathwater. But Alistair was warm. She put her hands on either side of his face and said, very seriously, “Sex is power. She wanted me to be powerful, like her. To have mastery over men. There is magic in the way the body conquers the mind, the way a man might go knowingly to his doom for a woman who holds his cock in her hand.”

“Ah. I see. That’s the sort of thing your mother taught you?”

“Yes. And am I not as Flemeth has made me?”

He smiled. She had expected him to be horrified, but he smiled. “I think you’re being a little over dramatic. It sounds like something an overzealous Revered Mother might say to scare a group of initiates away from sex.”

She drew her hands away from his face, frustrated that he was not taking her seriously. She leaned in close and let her lips brush his in a ghostly kiss as she whispered, “How does it feel, to be inside me… to turn me over a chair and stick your great big Theirin cock into me and pound into me like a hammer? Does it make you feel strong and manly and in control?”

“I do like it.”

“And do you  _ really _ think you’re in control?” she said, laughing. “I’m a witch, I have more power in my left pinky toe than you have in your entire body. You only do to me what I let you do, what I want you to do. I could break you in half, I could devour you, I could rip your heart out.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“This isn’t supposed to be arousing,” she said, when she felt him stir against her thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but he didn’t sound very contrite. He still sounded amused. And still aroused.

She stepped back from him, shaking his hands away. “You do not understand,” she said, and as she continued to talk she walked around to the other side of the tub and began gathering up her clothes. “Everything we have done has been part of my mother’s plan. There is nothing sweet, or kind, or innocent about this. Tis all sordid and tawdry and base. Like my mother. Like me, for I am my mother’s daughter. I want you to understand that.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, with maddening gentleness, “Morrigan… did your mother ever… did Flemeth ever make you do anything you didn’t want to do?”

She barked out a short laugh. “All the time.”

“I mean, with men. Did she ever force you to do something you didn’t want to, with a man?”

“No.” She did not pause or stop getting dressed. “Twas all theoretical.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she understood the real question,  _ Would you tell me if she had? _

“I have already told you how she used to use me as bait to lure in templars when I was just a little girl, but twas nothing like you are thinking now. I ran and I hid and twas all a grand game. I did no killing and I did no bedding. Not till I was older.”

“How old?”

“The killing or the bedding?”

“Either. Both.”

“I do believe I killed my first templar when I was twelve or thirteen? And I was a few years older when I snuck away from my mother’s hut to go visit a Chasind village… I found a man there to practice my wiles upon. We spent an afternoon rolling naked in his bed until his wife returned home. She was big as a druffalo, heavy with child, and I could still hear her shrieks of indignant rage after I had turned to a bird and flew out their window. So he may have died for the pleasure of my body, but I did not kill him, and his lifeless corpse did not end up decorating my mother’s hut as many other unfortunate trespassers have.”

Alistair had listened to this all very quietly, not interrupting or making a sound. She was finished dressing, now, and turned back to look at him. He was still naked, just sitting on the edge of the tub, watching her.

“And you did that for your own amusement?” he asked.

She wanted to say  _ yes _ but her own voice betrayed her and said, “No. No I didn’t. I lied just now. I didn’t sneak away from my mother. She sent me out to find a man. To bed a man. I was sixteen and she said twas time, and that I should not come back home till I had a story of conquest to tell her. And she said she would know if I was lying. I believed her. She always knows when I’m lying.”

“She’s dead now.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, because it’s true. We killed her. Well, to be honest, Wynne killed her. Wynne is a little terrifying, actually.” He smiled, then got up and walked towards her. He stopped just short of her and the smile vanished. “Did Flemeth tell you to seduce me?”

“No,” she said. It was almost not a lie.

“Good.” He pulled her into a hug, resting his chin against the top of her head. She was fully clothed in her pants and leather skirt and fur lined tunic, and he should have been the more vulnerable in his birthday suit, but she had never felt more vulnerable in her life, and twas terrifying. She hadn’t meant to tell him all that. She hadn’t meant to say any of what she had said, and she did not know what had come over her.

Was she trying to scare him away? She did not know. If so, twas not working. He was suspicious when he needn’t be and trusting when he ought not to be. Maddening.

“Please let me go,” she said, for his arns were so strong and tight around her, twould have taken a violent outburst of magic to remove them by force, and she did not want to have to do that.

She need not have worried. Alistair did as she asked of him. Like he always did. Like he always had.

She moved towards the door, and he asked her where she was going.

“I’m tired, I want to sleep now,” she said. He motioned towards the vast, plush four poster bed with its blood red coverlet and canopy.

“I told you, I don’t like these palatial beds,” she told him. “I prefer to sleep outside, under the stars or in a tent. Actually I was thinking of the stable. To sleep in the loft above the horses and the mabari. I’ve been told tis pleasant.”

He smiled, but twas a very sad smile, of the kind that had often crossed his face when he talked of the dead Ser Duncan. “There aren’t any mabari left,” he said. “Connor killed them all when he was possessed.”

She let her hand drop from the doorknob, then she went over and sat on the edge of the bed. She just sat there, staring ahead, while she listened to Alistair’s movements. Like a wild animal with heightened senses, she could tell what he was doing even though she dared not look at him. He went to the tall wardrobe in the corner and pulled something out, shook it loose, and put it on. A dressing gown, she thought. Something to sleep in.

He came back over to the bed. He crawled across its vast expanse and sat behind her.

“I’m sorry for all the times I teased you or mocked you about your mother,” he said after a moment, as he played absently with her hair, which was still undone and damp around her shoulders. He ran his fingers through it like a comb. “I didn’t know,” he went on. “But I did try to be as big of an ass as I could, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all the things she did to you… which I’m sure I still don’t know the half of.”

“Tis quite alright, Alistair. I need no pity. My mother showed me the ugly realities of the world alongside the magic of it. She prepared me for the worst I might encounter and gave me the tools I would need to survive. Her lessons made me strong. My eyes are unclouded by naivete or sentiment because of her, and for that I am thankful.”

He didn’t say anything, just set her hair to one side, over one shoulder, and then encircled her in a hug again. He rested his face against her neck, his chin snug against her collarbone. “Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan,” he murmured, like a song, rocking back and forth with each repetition of her name. “It’s not all bad.”

“Is that what the Chantry taught you?”

“No.” He laughed softly and she felt the reverberations of it in her own chest.

“What  _ did _ they teach you?”

“I don’t know. The Chant of Light, I suppose.”

“Say it for me.”

“Why?” he asked, with another incredulous laugh.

“No reason. I don’t know. I do not believe in any of it. Mother never taught me any of it. I don’t even know the names of all the characters.”  _ I like to hear your voice, _ she might have said, if she were being honest.

He sighed. “Now you’ve caught me in a lie. I don’t think that I can recite anything straight off the top of my head. I was a bad student.”

“I’m imagining young Alistair getting his backside whipped by some scary old laysister because he didn’t know how  _ Maleficar 10:92  _ went.”

“There’s no verse called  _ Maleficar. _ Not even in the Dissonant Verses, I don’t think.”

“I am but an ignorant wood’s witch,” she said.

“And I’m an ignorant bastard.”

She allowed him a small laugh. “You said so, not I.”

They fell into silence for several moments. He still had her in a tight embrace, holding her against his chest, and she thought he might be drifting off to sleep sitting up, until he said,  _ “They will see what can be gained, and though we are few against the wind, we are Yours.” _

He kissed her neck. “There you go. That’s all I’ve got.”

“And what verse is that?”

“No idea.”

“What does it mean?”

“Not a clue.”

“Then why do you remember it, of all the many verses?”

“A young initiate once passed wind while Sister Grunhilde was reciting the canticle and there was chaos in the chapel after that, all the inities giggling and refusing to settle down. She was so mad she beat the offender with a candlestick until he cried.”

“Was it you?”

“No, but I was the one who dared him to do it, so I felt bad. Not as bad as he did, obviously, but pretty bad.”

She laughed, and he laughed, and twas strange for them to be laughing about such a thing, but Morrigan could not help it. First there came the thought that her mother might have been quite at home dressed in the wimple of a Chantry Sister, tasked with the taming of unruly templar boys. And then there was the reminder of Alistair's devilish streak, which she could not deny she enjoyed, and the thought of him goading his young peers towards mischief made her laugh even while held fast in his embrace.

Finally Alistair drew back and kissed her neck, then said, “So, are you going to stay with me tonight, or not?”

Morrigan twisted to the side and lifted her legs up onto the bed, so that she could lay flat on her back on the posh mattress. Alistair half sat, half lounged beside her. She stared up at the underside of the canopy, wondering why people felt the need to put a roof over their bed when it was already indoors. He brushed a hand against her face, a gentle caress down the side of her cheek. She looked at his sleeve, then followed the line of his arm to look at him.

His eyes were warm and smiling as he gazed at her. His mouth softened as he looked at her lips a moment before returning his eyes to hers. He didn’t kiss her, just kept gazing, softly touching her face, playing with the tendrils of hair by her ear. The moments seemed to go on forever, and she couldn’t look away, could not distract from the intensity of his eyes, too brown and earnest and adoring to endure.

Morrigan’s heart began to race. She sat up, abruptly, nearly knocking heads with him. She swung her legs back over the side of the bed, swatting his hands away as he reached for her. Her feet hit the floor and she was halfway to the door a second later.

“I can’t,” she said, and was gone before he could utter a response.

She didn’t sleep in the castle, or outside, or in the hayloft that night. She did not sleep at all.


	13. Such Enchanting Music (Redcliffe / The Wilds)

Alistair went looking for Morrigan while the sun was still dawning.

He found her in the castle garden, sitting on a stone bench below a maple tree whose leaves had turned a deep red. She was holding the golden hand mirror that Aedan had gifted her in Orzammar. He saw it over her shoulder as he approached her from behind, and he observed that the handle was bent, the gold plating gouged deeply, and the glass was shattered.

“What happened to your mirror?”

She jumped, and put it down beside her, quickly, but he thought she must have been very deep in thought to allow him to sneak up on her.

“I dropped it,” she told him. “Twas an accident.”

“It looks like you dropped it several times, from the top of the windmill,” he said, reaching over to pick it up from the bench. He turned it over, looking at the shattered face. There were only a few jagged shards left clinging to the frame. His face was distorted in them.

“Tis badly damaged, yes.”

“Are you going to get it fixed when we go back to Orzammar?”

“No. No, I don’t see the point. The cost…”

“Then why keep it?”

She took it from him. “Tis not for the reason you think.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” he asked, smiling, though he knew he was practically begging for an insult regarding the complexity of his brain.

Her glance was sharp. “You know that Aedan gave me the mirror, so you assume that I keep it out of a sense of misguided sentimentality.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Men are possessive and jealous creatures. I have often seen you look at this mirror with an unhappy frown when I am holding it. You do know that I can see you in the reflection, do you not?”

“Could. It’s not reflecting anything now.”

Morrigan was unamused. She did not smile as she wrapped it back up in a handkerchief and put it into her pack, with all her other prized possessions. The two grimoires, the silver hairbrush, her stash of lyrium vials, healing poultices, red candles, and the mabari crunch treats she made while grousing about the fat spoiled hounds. There were, doubtless, other more secret things stashed away in there, but he was not jealous or possessive enough to have ever searched through it.

“I’m not worried about Aedan,” he told her, leaning casually against the tree, running a hand absently along its bark so that he would not be tempted to reach out for her. “I know that if you wanted to be with him, you would be.”

“Then you do not believe his repeated claims that twas he who cast me aside?”

Alistair laughed, inspecting the red leaves dangling just above eye level. “Of course not. I never believed that for a second.”

“You think it impossible for a man to escape my clutches, then.”

It was no good. He abandoned the tree and put his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want to escape.”

It seemed to be the wrong thing to do, or to say. She shook him off and stood up.

Alistair cleared his throat and said, with as much indifference as he could, “Anyone can see he’s not over whatever happened between you. He’s far too bitter and angry to have been the one to end things.”

“Tis true,” she said. “I grew tired of him and so I discarded him. Though we never made oaths of love or faithfulness it upset him terribly. Twas unfortunate that he allowed himself delusions, but tis no fault of mine. From the start I had made it clear that I valued my independence and would not abide a man who sought to cage me.”

She turned around and faced him, the bench between them.

“Fair enough,” he said, keeping his face neutral and his words calm, like he would if facing down a frightened animal.

“As for the mirror, I keep it in its broken state as a reminder of a lesson I too often forget.”

He tilted his head to the side inquisitively. “And what’s that?”

She tilted her head as well, but in the opposite direction, thrusting her chin up and out as if in defiance. “That some things which seem beautiful and desirable are in fact false and fragile—they break at the slightest pressure and are revealed to be cheap underneath the glimmer.”

“Sometimes things are just things, Morrigan.”

“Not when there is a cost, one that is too high. My mother tried to teach me that long ago, when she broke the mirror I stole, for I endangered our lives over a useless bauble. Twas not a cruel punishment, or at least, not an injust one. My mother was right to smash the mirror.”

“So that’s why you broke this one.”

She was silent, and he took it as confirmation.

“Look, Morrigan,” he said, stepping over the bench to close the distance between them. “I think you should stop worrying so much about lessons from a mother who wanted to steal your body.” He placed his hands on her upper arms very lightly, so that she would not feel constrained, and he drew her closer.

“Does that invalidate everything she taught me?”

“Yeah, I think it does. Anyway, she’s dead. Let her mind games rest with her, okay?” He planted a kiss on her forehead.

“I cannot forget the lessons that have shaped me thus far,” she said, but she didn’t pull away. She lifted her face up so that her words were spoken close to his mouth.

“All I’m saying is maybe get a new mirror instead of carrying around broken glass in your pack.” He kissed her briefly. “And there’s no metaphor there. I’m too simple for metaphors.”

Her eyes grew clouded. “Alistair… about last night…”

“I know,” he said. “I broke the rule, didn’t I. Rule number one.”

She frowned, shook her head, her eyes troubled. “You did nothing wrong. I would have stayed, but this castle… I do not like it. Tis too full of the echoes of death and sadness. I will be glad to be gone from here once more.”

He smiled. He did not believe her. But he accepted her apology, however oblique it was, and only said, “You’re in luck because I came to see if you were ready to leave.”

“I am,” she said, pulling free from his embrace, stooping to gather her pack. When she straightened she still looked thoughtful, and added, “But if you think…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Tis nothing. Come, we must make haste. I have held us up too long.” She ducked her head and walked past him, tugging her pack more tightly up against her shoulders.

He followed after her, feeling all at once worried and relieved. He had thought she might tell him not to trouble her with his unwanted attentions anymore. That she might even announce her intention to leave the party.

Once not so long ago he might have said, “Good riddance,” and pretended not to miss her. But now he knew that he would regret the loss. He  _ had _ broken rule number one. He wasn’t sure if he could unbreak it. But instead of acknowledging it and ending their arrangement, she seemed to have chosen avoidance of the topic, burying it in allegory and allusion as a warning.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, now. Pretend not to care? Be callous and dismissive? Cavalier?

He thought once more of the words Flemeth had spoken to him in the swamp, how she had laughed at him and taunted him. “Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn’t you say?”

She had tried to bargain for her life, to convince him that she was no great threat and that Morrigan was manipulating him and he should lie to her in response. Flemeth had almost sounded reasonable, amongst all her cryptic sideways talk, when she offered to disappear, give him the book, and let him tell Morrigan he had done as she’d asked. And maybe if he didn’t care about her, maybe if he despised her, he would have thought it a clever idea to trick Morrigan and avoid a potentially deadly fight. Sure, why not? Take the book, tell Morrigan her mother was dead, win some approval and risk nothing. It seemed like something Aedan might do, were he in Alistair’s place.

He wasn’t seriously considering agreeing to Flemeth’s ruse, but he had kept her talking for awhile, acting interested in what she had to say.

“It’s far easier this way, don’t you think? The lies are more fun,” Flemeth had cooed, malice under the surface of her skin, stretching the old lines thin, the ripple of gathering magic coiling behind the hard granite of her eyes.

“Yes, ‘fun,’ tricking Morrigan…” he responded, then canted towards Leliana and said, flippantly, “Oh who am I kidding? That does sound fun.”

Leliana’s eyes widened in shock. “You cannot be serious,” she said, affronted. For someone who had made her dislike of Morrigan clear, she was in no mood for even the suggestion of dishonor. A curious bard, she was.

Wynne, for her part, was already in a battle stance, her staff unslung from her back and held at the ready. She didn’t give his poorly timed jest even a momentary response. “We will make no bargains with you, evil spirit,” she said, her voice like a cool Frostback glacier.

His stomach was already turning to jelly, sensing the growing storm of Flemeth’s magic, and he just gave Leliana a wide, mad smile and shrugged. Then he turned back to Flemeth, looked her in her feral, ageless eyes, and said, “Well, you heard the ladies. No tricks. Just good honest murder.”

“Come,” said Flemeth, “I will have her earn what she takes. I’d have it no other way.”

She stepped up onto the hill before them and let loose all the magic she had been gathering within. Alistair knew his meager templar skills would not stop the transformation that was building. It would be like tossing a single bucket of water on a raging inferno. So he just drew his sword, hands clammy with sweat, and watched as Flemeth stretched and grew and erupted into a massive dragon.

Leliana loosed her arrows and Wynne drew on all her strength to protect as Alistair and Barkspawn charged the beast.

True be told he remembered little of the battle. He remembered arrows flying above his head and Flemeth catching them in her jaws. He remembered the dragon snatching Barkspawn up and sending the hound flying into the swamp with a heartbreaking howl of pain and fear. He remembered claws shredding through him and seeing Wynne wreathed in a halo of white and feeling life in him again, wounds knitting together and blood pumping through his veins instead of into the mud.

He staggered to his feet despite the earthquake that shook the swamp; another of Wynne’s spells. He dragged the sword across the dragon’s belly, and it screamed an unholy shriek of primal rage and guttural pain. It nearly crushed him as it fell, but he scrambled backwards and landed on his backside in the mud just inches away from one spasming leg.

As the life went out of the beast it shrank and transformed back into the small, fragile body of an old woman. She lay face down, half on the sodden land and half submerged in the pond, one hand outstretched towards Alistair.

“You have killed her,” said Wynne, approaching. When he looked up he saw her eyes aglow, no pupils or irises to be seen, just shining orbs of blinding white leaking out in tendrils of magic and licking away into the air like smoke.

“No,” he said, laughing and wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand. “You killed her.”

He’d been dead himself a moment ago, he was sure of it, and with his life had gone half his memories of the battle. He’d come back with only the instinct of stabbing and slashing and running to guide him.

Barkspawn came limping out of the water, bedraggled looking but not nearly as dead as he had seemed when he’d sunk below the murk minutes ago. Leliana approached as well, daggers in her hands, her quiver empty, a harrowed look in her eyes.

The glow around Wynne gradually subsided, her eyes returning to normal, and she slung her staff back into its sling. “Come,” she said, “let us leave this evil, foul smelling place.”

Alistair got to his feet only after hugging and petting Barkspawn reassuringly for a few moments. “As tempting as that is, I have something I need to look for inside.”

“The grimoire she spoke of?” asked Wynne, a thread of disapproval running clearly through her tone.

“Yeah. But Morrigan said we could have anything we wanted from the hut, so,” he motioned vaguely towards the door, “have at it.”

Wynne shook her head. “I will take some supplies, as it is better than letting such things go to waste, but I have no need of anything this maleficar deemed valuable. I sensed an ancient and malevolent spirit inside her.” She gazed upward thoughtfully. “I am not altogether sure it is gone, though this body is no longer fit to house it.”

“Yes, well, Morrigan suspected as much,” Alistair told her.

“Then what was the point of killing her?” Leliana sighed, picking arrows out of the loam.

“Slowing her down for a while,” he said. “Anyway you didn’t actually think I was going to let her run along and then lie to Morrigan about it, did you?”

Leliana played with the fletching on one arrow before shunting it back into her quiver. She shrugged. “I thought perhaps you had decided to be a hard man who used others as he saw fit. That’s what Morrigan would do, in your place. It is what she would counsel you to do, if it was someone other than herself in need.”

“So you think I’m a bad person for being with Morrigan in the first place so you assume I’m not going to be honest with her and keep my promises,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Children,” said Wynne, wearily, “let us either leave this place or gather what we need from the house. I haven’t the energy left to stand about listening to you bicker.”

“Right,” Alistair agreed, and started up towards the shack that was built up haphazardly against an old tower. But he couldn’t help but add back over his shoulder, “But for the record I was joking. I laugh in the face of danger, and all that.”

Leliana said nothing, and he went inside without further goading. Wynne followed him in, and in the dim afternoon light they searched the hut. He found the book easily, for Flemeth had laid it out on the table as if she’d been expecting company. Which, of course, she had. She’d been standing outside her house waiting for them, like they had made an appointment.

Wynne ran her fingers across the various vials and clusters of herbs, plucking them off the shelves and slipping them into the satchel she carried at her hip. There was stew bubbling on the hearth, and Alistair felt strange looking at it, thinking how the old woman had been cooking up her dinner one moment and dying the next. Only the fact that she had turned into a giant fire breathing dragon in the interim soothed his conscience. She really was dangerous, and ancient, and mad with her nefarious means of attaining immortality. It was for the best to put her down, as much as something like her could be put down.

“Alistair,” said Wynne, gently, eying the book he now held. “I am glad you did not intend to lie to your lover, but I still would caution you against giving Morrigan that book. She is young and there is hope for her yet, perhaps. But to give her that might further poison her mind with the maleficar’s teachings. Better to sever the connection.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. He’d been thinking the same thing. “But I don’t really think I can make that choice for her. And anyway I promised.”

Wynne sighed and shook her head. He saw that she’d not had that much hope of convincing him to begin with. He opened the book and looked at it, but it was all incomprehensible to him. There were glyphs on some of the pages, diagrams and other such things, but all the writing was in some ancient script he didn’t understand. “Is that elvhen, do you think?” he asked, tilting the book towards Wynne.

“I do not want to look at it,” she said, pointedly turning her face away. “I have all that I need, here.” She patted the sack now full of healing poultices and ingredients. “Let us leave.”

He glanced around once more, looking for something that might be useful to him, or Leliana, or anyone, really. There were some clothes folded up on a chair, which he grabbed and shoved into his pack, because they looked like Morrigan’s and extra clothes were always good to have, seeing as how often theirs got torn up in battles. But there wasn’t much else to see, so he grabbed the soup pot off the fire and carried it out, following Wynne back out into the light.

Once outside he plopped it down on the ground, and at Leliana’s questioning look, he said, “You know, for the critters.”

Barkspawn came up and started lapping at the stew, but Leliana just shook her head. She seemed out of sorts and subdued after the battle. Wynne was, as well. But he was feeling pretty good. Wynne’s healing spell was just the kick in the pants he needed, apparently. Barkspawn, having decided that the stew was not suspect, proceeded to gulp it down in great slobbering mouthfuls. So much for feeding the wildlife.

Now, back in Redcliffe, he trailed behind Morrigan, on their way to join the others in the front hall. Looking at the back of her head and her shoulders, hunched up around her neck as she marched forward with her pack up like a shield, he thought of Flemeth’s taunts, Wynne’s warnings, and Leliana’s belief that loving Morrigan had somehow turned him into a bad person.

Or was it  _ not _ loving her that made Leliana judge him? He wasn’t sure. Sometimes Leliana was hard to understand. But on the journey to Redcliffe she had softened somewhat. The further they got away from the Wilds, the more she smiled and sang and returned to her normal chatter. And then when Morrigan had turned up on the road, startling them all by swooping down as a bird to land on human feet, he’d almost thought he detected amusement in Leliana’s tone as she left, to give them privacy. Maybe she had decided to believe in love, despite appearances.

Or maybe he was just that transparent, the appearances were revealing the truth, and he couldn’t hide it. Not from Leliana’s shrewd observance, at least.

He did love Morrigan. He couldn’t delude himself about that any longer. He wasn’t entirely sure when the moment was that he decided to be honest with himself, but it had happened even before he had held her beside the tub, listening to her tell him how she was all the evil things her mother had told her she needed to be in order to survive. She’d been trembling as she spoke. He’d wanted to tell her right then, that he loved her. But she didn’t believe in love. Flemeth had stomped it out of her long ago. So what was he to do?

Teagan and Elissa were there waiting for them along with the others. Seeing the two of them standing side by side like that you would think they were the true Lord and Lady of Redcliffe, not merely standing in for the dead and dying. The thought gave him pause, but he just filed it away for later.

Teagan wished them well, commenting that it was a miracle that Eamon still breathed, so perhaps more miracles would yet be forthcoming. Alistair saw the worry in his eyes despite his upbeat tone. Last night Teagan had not been so sanguine. He feared his older brother may never wake, or even if he did, that his mind would not be the same as when he had succumbed to the poison induced coma. Wynne had not been able to do anything to heal him or bring him back to consciousness, though she had given it a try. Wynne, who had brought him and Barkspawn both back from the brink of death simultaneously, could not help Eamon, and that was enough to make him seriously consider what he would need to do without the Arl’s help or guidance going forward.

Finding the mythical Sacred Ashes would be their last hope for a cure before they had to leave Eamon to his fate.

“May I trouble you for a moment?” said Elissa, stepping towards Alistair as they were leaving. He was surprised, but he acquiesced. He could hardly say no, though she barely had a word or a glance to spare him normally.

She drew him aside as the others filed out the door into the soft morning sunlight beyond.

“I wanted to speak to you last night, but you seemed rather busy,” she said.

He kept his face as neutral as possible, though he wondered if she was alluding to Morrigan being in his room last night. It would be odd for her to notice, wouldn’t it? He had barely interacted with her. He had talked with Teagan for a while in the evening, eaten some dinner, and then retreated to his room for a bath. After Morrigan had come, and gone, he had stayed in the room even though it took a while for sleep to finally claim him. He’d almost left the room several times to go searching for her, but had decided that giving her space was the best thing he could do.

Now all he said to Elissa was, “Is there something you need?”

She looked at him with an inscrutable expression, coolness and distance in her grey eyes. But it might have been the first time she had looked him fully in the eye. He had always been aware of how her gaze darted around, avoiding direct contact, looking over his shoulder or down at her hands. He wasn’t even sure he could have positively identified her eye color until that moment.

“I am concerned about my brother,” she said. “He is acting rashly. He is very frustrated. I would like to know that he has friends among the Wardens who will watch out for him.”

Oh, boy. Here was a conversation he’d rather gouge out his eyes than have. “We all have each other’s backs in battle,” he said. Wynne, especially.

“Yes, but you are not fighting together as one unit. You are scattered and in disagreement.”

“Aedan was supposed to wait here so that we could all leave for Haven together,” Alistair told her. He wondered when she had become opinionated about the unity of the Wardens.

“Yes, which is why I say he is acting rashly. He would not wait because he felt you were acting irrationally and endangering the quest. He doubts that you truly care about stopping Loghain and Howe from stealing power. He feels as if he must act on his own. This concerns me.”

He shrugged and looked at her with practiced blankness. It was the sort of reaction that had served him well growing up in the Chantry, being scolded by the Sisters. He’d gotten enough flak from the others about this, and he didn’t actually give a single solitary fuck what Elissa Cousland thought, even if she finally had found it in her to look at his face when she spoke to him.

She was having trouble with that, again. Her gaze skittered away, landing on a point past his right ear. “I know that Aedan can be difficult,” she said. “But I would like for him not to die. Please try to work things out so that he is not so… desperate and angry.”

He sighed, a little puff of defensiveness going out of him. “I don’t want him to die either, but I can’t control him. He’s not a Warden, I don’t command him. He has his own agenda.”

“Yes, I know all about Aedan’s plans to restore what has been taken from us,” she said. She spoke in the same soft, refined voice he was familiar with, but when she once more forced her eyes to meet his and hold his gaze, there was something less timid and more commanding about her tone. “He is relying on you to help us.”

Oh, Maker. Alistair glanced towards the door, half hoping that Morrigan would come back inside and rescue him from this moment.

“Eamon will help you,” he said. Then he added, with a pointed lift of one eyebrow, “And Teagan, as well.”

“Neither of them have a legitimate claim to the throne,” she said. “But I know that this is a conversation you have had with Aedan several times. It is not what concerns me.”

“So you don’t agree with his plan?”

“On the contrary, I think it’s a solid one. Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe are in league, so we will never have justice while Mac Tir is Regent. You can challenge Loghain’s right to the throne better than anyone, and you may not have the upbringing, but you have the connections, to make a decent King. The Guerrins, Aedan and I, we could all help you. A king is nothing without his council, after all.”

Was this a marriage proposal in the entrance hall of Redcliffe castle? Alistair shuffled uncomfortably, ready to bolt at any moment. His instinct was to make a joke, throw her off the scent, but all he managed was a dry, “Is that you talking, or Aedan?”

“As I said, it does not concern me. What does concern me is how upset your refusal makes Aedan.”

“He needs to get over it.”

She sighed. “He has blamed me for your unwillingness to listen to him,” she said. “I have been cold and unfriendly and have frightened you off.”

He was surprised to hear her say it so bluntly. He responded in kind. “You don’t like the idea of a commoner brute, can’t say I blame you.”

“A brute?” Suddenly, she laughed. He had never heard her laugh. “No, you are a romantic. You are a soft and sentimental boy who dreams of true love, and longs to marry a princess from a fairy tale.”

“I’m not soft,” he said, grumpily, and it sounded petulant and whiny even to his own ears.

He didn’t even need to ask if those were Aedan’s judgements coming out of her mouth. She didn’t know him well enough to drag him like that all on her own. And there was that word again:  _ sentimental. _ Had she been talking to Morrigan? It occurred to him that maybe it wasn’t all Aedan’s opinions held within her assessment of him. She and Morrigan would’ve had plenty of time to sit around and chat about him, though Morrigan claimed to have been avoiding the castle.

“I’m not a romantic,” Elissa said. “I am pragmatic. Well bred. Educated. I think I would make an excellent Queen, though perhaps not an excellent wife to someone like you.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Which makes it a bad plan.”

“Not necessarily. If you want love you could find it in the arms of a mistress. I would not begrudge you that, as long as you were discreet.”

“Is this a serious offer? I try for the throne, you and Aedan rule through me, the Couslands rise again?”

Elissa was so much more like her brother than he had initially thought. He’d misjudged her, he realized. She wasn’t afraid of him, she just didn’t like him, but she wasn’t going to let that stand in the way of a little power grab. They were two noble peas in a Cousland shaped pod. Twins.

“You don’t like the idea of being a figurehead—”

“A puppet.”

She shrugged, elegantly, and something like a smile played across her lips. “I understand. You are not well-suited to be a king on your own merits, and it is good that you realize that. But instead of running away from this responsibility, you should be letting others help you… for the good of Ferelden.”

“When Eamon wakes up he’ll set you both straight on this plan,” Alistair said. “So I guess I’d better get going.”

He was confident in this. Eamon had impressed upon him his whole childhood that he must never aspire to take his brother’s throne, had told him plainly that he was a commoner despite his royal blood, thus keeping his ego small. If Eamon thought differently, he never would have sent Alistair to the Chantry, where his eventual vows as a Templar would disqualify him from claiming any birthright.

“I didn't mean to get into all this,” Elissa said, waving a hand as if to wave the entire conversation away. “What is most important to me right now is that my brother is behaving desperately, and you’re the reason. He’s more fond of you than you know.”

He huffed. That was a dirty bit of guilt manipulation and she had to know what she was doing. He really didn’t think Aedan liked him at all, though, so it wasn’t going to work.

“I’ll do my best to keep your brother alive,” he said. Just like he was doing his best to keep everyone alive.

She nodded, but said, “I am aware of the difficulty your association with Morrigan has caused.”

“That topic is off limits,” he said quickly. He couldn’t even talk to Morrigan about their relationship, he certainly wasn’t going to defend it to Elissa.

That got another nod, a gracious one. “I understand. I only wanted to say that I believe Aedan cares far more about you than he does about Morrigan. Perhaps if you understood that it would make things less difficult.”

He understood it perfectly well. Morrigan wasn’t heir to the throne. He didn’t see how that made anything less difficult.

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?” he asked, inching towards the door.

“Yes.”

“Good, great, because we’re burning daylight, as Duran would say. I’m gonna go catch up with Aedan and tell him I love him and make everything all better,” he said, flinging the words at her from a shit-eating grin, because he was almost to the door and could smell freedom.

She frowned, not appreciating his humor, apparently. But she let him go without further argument.

As soon as he got outside, he found Morrigan and the others waiting for him in the courtyard. Barkspawn was chasing his nonexistent tail around in circles but stopped when he emerged. The hound barked happily and bounced around, tossing his head, excited to be back on the road.

“Sorry about that,” he said, jogging down the steps. “She wanted to talk strategy, battle plans, combat tactics, all that. You know how those Couslands can be.”

The look that Morrigan gave him nearly turned his insides to fluffy mackerel pudding, and not in a good way.

“I shall scout ahead,” she announced, pushing herself away from the column where she had been leaning as she waited. “As a hawk I can cover ground quickly and scan the road from afar, and in mabari form I can sniff out their trail. I know Aedan’s scent particularly well. Once I locate them, I will tell them we are coming and hope that they will wait for us to regroup. Then I will circle back and let you know what I have found.”

“Great,” said Alistair, pointedly ignoring the comment about Aedan’s scent. “Sounds like a wonderful plan. Lead on.”


	14. Night Watch (The Hinterlands)

There was little time for talk or camaraderie as they traversed the roads west from Redcliffe towards the Frostbacks. The Hinterlands were abuzz with darkspawn activity. Alistair felt on edge the whole way.

Morrigan left them early on, transforming into a great black bird with sharp yellow eyes. She spread her wings and soared up past the trees, growing ever smaller till even the back blip of her against the clouds could no longer be seen.

They stayed the course that had been planned out and agreed upon by the group before the detours to Ostagar and Redcliffe. This place called Haven wasn’t on any map, but Genitivi had marked it for the deceased Weylon before he left on his quest. Alistair could only hope that the scribe was correct in his theory about the location of the village, and the Ashes, otherwise they were venturing into the inhospitable Frostbacks in late autumn on a fool’s errand.

The once beautiful Fereldan wilderness stank of death and decay. There were darkspawn all around them, in deserted villages, on the roads, lurking in the forests and the hills beyond the well worn pathways. He could sense the ones they didn’t see, but they saw plenty, and it was slow going that first day.

They encountered several small bands of hurlocks and had to stop each time to slay the monsters before the road was clear to go on. It did seem as if Aedan and the dwarves had been this way before them, for besides the bodies of innocent Fereldans -- dead farmers and travellers littered the countryside -- there were plenty of slain darkspawn in the ditches. But it didn’t matter that others had cleared the way a day before; there were ever more darkspawn pouring out of the dark places of the earth to replace them.

It was late when they finally stopped to make camp, but there was little sleep to be had. There were only three of them to share the watch, four if you counted Barkspawn, so the whole night had to be divided up into only three watches. Alistair wasn’t even sure he’d be able to sleep, regardless. There were too many darkspawn in the hills. Even if they weren’t actively attacking they were too close for him to shake off the constant buzzing at the corners of his mind.

It was late and he was sitting alone by the dwindling fire, looking up at the hazy blue of a clouded night sky, with Barkspawn dozing at his feet. There were bats flittering above in the sky, darting to and fro, and he found their movements mesmerizing. When one swooped close to him he could hear the flapping of its leathery wings, and he remembered the massive wings of Flemeth in her dragon form. That got him to thinking about what a gigantic bat might look like, and how terrifying it would be on a scale of Nug (not at all) to Blighted Dragon (pants pissingly awful). He supposed it would depend on how fast it could move.

One of the bats kept swooping closer and closer to him on each pass, and he shifted uncomfortably, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. It seemed uncommonly interested in him, and tales of blood sucking vampires who shapeshifted into bats came unbidden to him. The bat was hovering above him now and he squinted, seeing its silhouette shift and change and grow larger as it stretched its wings outward, until they became arms, and suddenly the bat was a woman.

“Maker’s breath, Morrigan,” he sighed, relaxing the hand that had moved to grip his sword. “That’s not funny.”

“Tis a little bit amusing,” she said, smiling in that smug, self-satisfied way she always did when she had changed into an animal just to sneak up on him and scare him. It had been a long time she had done it, but he remembered early days on the road when she rushed at him as a giant spider and made him scream.

She’d been a wolf, a wild boar, and countless other wild creatures in the time he’d known her, though she favored the giant spider in battle and the raven for quick travel. Sometimes she took the form of a grey mabari, a shape learned from observing Barkspawn and Calenhad.

Now that she was done being a bat, she sat down beside him and Barkspawn, who had come awake when Alistair’s feet jerked underneath his sleeping body. Barkspawn wagged his tail shamelessly, licking her hands and nuzzling her, begging for a treat. She pulled one out of her pack, having given up all pretense (in front of Alistair, at least) that she did not carry them with her and sneak treats to the hounds when others weren’t looking.

When she looked back up at him her smile didn’t falter.If anything it grew wider, more catlike even though her face was once again human. “You hate my shapeshifting, don’t you,” she said, grabbing a stick to poke at the embers which remained of the campfire, sending curls of smoke into the air.

He chose his words carefully. “It’s very useful.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“Only when you use it to sneak up on me and harass me.”

“Tch, I have never done so,” she claimed, airily. “Why is the fire out?”

“Too many darkspawn in the woods. Didn’t want to attract them.”

She looked at the ashes ruefully and observed, “Tis cold.”

“Barkspawn can warm you up, I’m sure.” Her hint had not been lost on him, but he suddenly found himself grumpy and weary of her games.

She arched an eyebrow at him appraisingly, then said, all business, “I found the others. They are camped near a village just before the mountains. Honnleath, tis called. Twas overrun by darkspawn, but our friends have made themselves heroes, saving the fool villagers who did not evacuate before the horde arrived.”

“Are they doing alright?”

“They have been faffing about in the village trying to bring a stone golem to life. Fortuitous, I suppose, as it gives you an opportunity to catch up. I flew far today, but if we hurry we should reach them by nightfall tomorrow.”

“So they’ll wait for us.”

“Oh yes,” she said, and the reason for her good mood became apparent. “They were having quite a bad time of it when I found them; too many darkspawn to handle, pinned down in the village ruins, slowed by injuries they could not hope to heal on their own. Twas their good fortune I arrived when I did. Aedan wanted me to stay with them and go on to Haven, but I said no, that they would have to wait for us all.”

“Thank you.”

“No need for thanks. To be truthful you need me less, since you have the formidable Wynne with you,” she said, brushing her bangs back from her eyes and looking toward the tents where Wynne and Leliana slept. “But between the two of you, Aedan is the more irritating, and I refuse to follow him or do what he thinks we ought.”

“Well, that’s something.”

She stood up and yawned, stretching and rolling her neck, then looked towards the tents again. “I am exhausted. Which one of these is yours?”

“The one to the left.”

“Good.” She turned without even a question and headed towards the empty tent.

“I have to keep watch,” he said, watching her go.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “All night?”

“Most of it.”

“Don’t be foolish. You will be too tired to go on come morning if you do not rest,” she said, lingering by the tent flap, not going in. The invitation to accompany her… into  _ his _ tent… was clear.

“I’m resting right now. I’ll be fine. I can’t sleep anyway. Too many darkspawn roaming the hills out there, and I’m the only Warden here.” Barkspawn woofed quietly and he added, “Besides Barkspawn.”

“You should rouse that worthless bard and have her stand watch.”

“It’ll be her turn eventually.”

“Very well. Do as you please, Alistair. Goodnight.” With that she pushed aside the flap and crawled inside his tent, making herself quite at home without him.

He turned his gaze back to the night sky. He wanted to follow her into the tent, to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in the nape of her neck, to drown out the encroaching darkspawn sense with a sensory overload of Morrigan. But he still had hours to go before the time agreed upon to wake Leliana, and he wasn’t going to disturb her early just because Morrigan had returned and he wanted to be with her.

Eventually, Leliana emerged from her tent, a little earlier than necessary, and he was glad, because he’d never liked having to creep round one of his female companions' tents, trying to rouse them from their slumber, even if it was just for an agreed upon watch switch. Leliana was shivering and muttering to herself about the barbaric cold of a Fereldan night as she approached him, but she still tried to smile prettily when she drew near, not quite able to drop the Bardic façade even now.

He told her that Morrigan had returned with information about the others and that they should rejoin the rest of the group in Honnleath tomorrow. He trusted she would relay the information to Wynne in turn, and retreated to his tent.

“Try not to make too much noise tonight, the darkspawn might hear,” Leliana said once his back was to her, but he could hear the smirk in her voice.

She needn’t have worried, because Morrigan was sound asleep and he didn’t intend to wake her. She had flown far that day and into the night, a raven, and she needed her rest. He snuggled up to her and breathed in the scent of her hair, and she only mumbled indistinctly in her sleep without coming fully to consciousness.

Alistair doubted he’d be able fall away from consciousness, not in these darkspawn infested hinterlands, but he tried nonetheless. Morrigan’s warmth and deep rhythmic breathing was soothing, though the nearness of her stirred feelings in him that were not conducive to sleep. Still, eventually he must have drifted off, for the vague sense of darkspawn turned into dreams of darkspawn, of tirelessly fighting through hordes of the demonic creatures with the rote ease of a floating unreality. They swarmed and hacked at him with their ugly, inelegant blades, but his sword cut great swathes of them down in one sweep. Their blood flowed like black waterfalls from their wounds until the ground of his dreamscape was flooded into a shallow lake, waves lapping at his knees as he moved through new waves of adversaries.

It wasn’t the most restful slumber, and some part of him was aware it was not real as he sleepwalked through battle, and wished it would stop, but he couldn’t direct it any more than he could direct real life. He was doomed to fight through the darkspawn in sleep just as he did in waking.

And then it was morning, the sun just brushing the sky with light, and Wynne was outside his tent, brazenly pulling aside the flap and calling that it was time to get up before moving on to Leliana’s tent to do the same.

Morrigan groaned, then turned over and muttered, “Insufferable hag of a woman,” with a low menace to her voice. Her hair covered her face and clung to her lips. He brushed the snarled hair from her face, pausing to run his thumb along the full curve of her lower lip, and she reached out to trace the line of his jaw, her fingers scraping against the morning stubble on his throat.

He pulled away, reluctantly. They had no time for such things, especially with Wynne stalking about the small camp rattling her staff.

Wynne was doing no more than was asked of her; as the person who had last watch it was her duty to wake them at sunrise so they could get the camp packed up and be on their way without burning precious daylight. Still, no one liked to be woken on a cold morning and pulled from warm blankets and warm embraces by the cruel reality of life on the road.

He only vaguely remembered the lake of darkspawn blood from his dreams, but it didn’t trouble him. No anymore. It was no more gruesome than the other dreams and visions he’d been plagued with ever since becoming a Warden. There were likely worse things waiting for him in reality before this Blight was all said and done.


	15. Lost Girls (Honnleath)

When Morrigan returned to Honnleath with the others, Aedan and the dwarves were still there, waiting for them.

The village had appeared deserted the day before, but now there were a few humans milling about as if it were a safe place to be. The presence of Grey Wardens seemed to embolden them, and Morrigan shook her head, thinking how once they continued on their journey to Haven, yet more darkspawn would flood into the town and kill all those who remained.

Yesterday, she had found Aedan, Duran, and Natia fighting their way through the horde of darkspawn who had overrun the decimated village, and once she had helped them against the waves of darkspawn outside, they had ventured into a nearby cellar. This was prompted by the dwarven Wardens sensing the presence of still living darkspawn there.

That was where they had found the surviving humans of Honnleath, a miserable few taking shelter behind the man, Matthias, and the magical barrier his mage father had put in place.

Morrigan suspected Matthias was an apostate, but did not pry into his business. Apparently his father had been a powerful mage and a hero of the Fereldan war for independence from Orlais, so had been allowed to marry and father children unmolested by the Chantry. This she found interesting, and wondered if fighting beside the Grey Wardens during a Blight would one day earn her the same privileges in Fereldan society. She tried to picture herself walking freely through the streets of Denerim without a care for templars, because _didn’t they know who she was?_ Twas a pleasant, if frivolous and unlikely, daydream.

Morrigan had thought to leave as soon as she had found the others, to return to Alistair and tell him where they were, but she was drawn in by Duran’s attempts to reanimate the stone golem which stood sentinel in the village square. He had gotten a control rod from a man in Sulchar’s Pass months ago and had carried it around on the off chance they might be near Honnleath one day. The prospect of waking and then controlling the stone golem intrigued her, so she accompanied the others deeper into the cellar to find the little girl who had foolishly run from her father’s side. Matthias would not divulge the true code phrase until they did his parenting for him. Worthless man, undeserving of the magic he concealed.

They found a demon masquerading as a cat, and she struck a deal with it, allowing it to take possession of the girl unchallenged so long as it went back to Matthias and satisfied him that his daughter was safe.

She thought it a neat and tidy solution to everyone’s problem. She solved the puzzle that released the demon from the mage’s prison and avoided a potentially deadly battle against the desire demon. Morrigan did not have the time or inclination to fight the demon—she was already tarrying here too long, and as for the girl, she was likely soon to be darkspawn fodder anyway, demon or no demon. The girl was alive and reunited with her father and the demon lurked within but did not transform the child into a monstrous abomination.

The others did not seem overly bothered by her actions. Aedan and Duran just wanted the password for the control rod and were impatient to be done with this task. Natia was simply glad they didn’t have to fight the demon. Though Natia would gladly take on darkspawn, bandits, assassins, and wild animals, demons terrified her.

She knew that Alistair would not approve of all this, but he wasn’t there to scowl or scold her, was he? She hadn’t even thought of him when she was dealing with the demon, twas only afterwards as they bid farewell to the girl and her father, and she left to return to Alistair, that she resolved not to tell him of this interlude.

He didn’t need to know any of it, and twas not as if Duran or Natia would tell him. Aedan might, just to stir up trouble, though she thought he too would want to avoid Alistair’s displeasure. Their upstanding templar warden would blame all of them for standing by and letting Morrigan negotiate the deal with the demon and solve the puzzle that let it escape the mage’s prison.

This dominated her thoughts as she flew away from Honnleath and the wrathful golem they had awoken there. Shale, for that was golem’s name, had actually been somewhat blasé and droll until Morrigan transformed into a raven for the return trip, at which point the giant stone beast had uttered a gravelly scream and tried to smash Morrigan with its fists.

“I suppose the swamp witch is upset that I tried to squash it before,” Shale said when she returned, as if the creature twas speaking about Morrigan rather than to her.

“Not at all,” said Morrigan mildly. “A reasonable reaction, I suppose, to an unexpected bird sighting.”

“I have no fear of birds,” said Shale, a touch defensively. “The swamp witch did not frighten me earlier. I was merely startled and reacted with instinct.”

“I did not say you were afraid.”

“Good. Because I was not.”

Twas late by the time they made their return to Honnleath and reunited with the others, so they decided to shelter in the village overnight. There were empty buildings aplenty, deserted by those who had fled or who had fallen to the darkspawn. Bodhan would have a field day collecting abandoned belongings to add to his wares.

They saw Matthias and his daughter again. The man was preparing for an impending journey, and told them he and his child would be fleeing north to escape the Blight. It was something they should have done months ago, he admitted, but the fear of traveling into the outside world was written clear on his face.

Yes, he was no doubt an apostate, and his daughter a fledgling mage as well, now an abomination, though he did not know it yet. Matthias feared venturing beyond the relative protection that this out of the way hamlet had always afforded him and his family, where his neighbors respected his father’s memory and valued the benefit of his abilities too much to betray him to templars. Wherever they ended up, would not be such a hospitable place for apostates. He spoke of the Free Marches, of putting the Waking Sea between them and the Blight.

The girl looked at Morrigan with knowing eyes, but spoke little, merely saying “Yes Father” when addressed. It made Morrigan’s skin crawl, though she had allowed it to happen. Wynne looked at the child suspiciously, as if she could smell the stink of demon possession upon her, but that wasn’t possible. The demon was well hidden, and to anyone who did not know what had transpired, the girl would just seem like a quiet, well mannered child.

Matthias did not want to be anywhere near Shale, so declined an offer from Alistair to accompany them on the road north for safety. Shale had killed Matthias’s father, so the man could hardly be blamed for wanting to get as far away from the reanimated golem as possible. Besides, their destination of Haven was out of the way, into the Frostbacks, and Matthias would be heading back towards Redcliffe and the Imperial Highway.

Morrigan was glad of it, for it spared her from having to travel in the company of the possessed girl. She could tell that Aedan and the dwarves felt the same way, though none of them spoke of it.

There was no need for their entire group to stay close together, and they spread out in smaller segments as they looked for empty, deserted buildings to shelter in. The few villagers who remained did not object, for the Grey Wardens had driven off the darkspawn and kept the village safe for the time being.

Morrigan pushed open the door of a deserted house near the square and looked around. The shack was one room, with cooking fire, table, and a bed all sharing the same space. This was not unlike the wilderness shack she had shared with her mother, so it suited her fine. The previous occupants had left in a hurry—the chairs were toppled over, blankets were tangled in an unmade heap upon the bed, and undisturbed foodstuffs still lined the shelves over the hearth. There was rock hard porridge sitting in an unappetizing lump in the cooking pot, and she needed to scrap it out into the ashes before using it for her own meal.

Twas likely that the villagers who had once dwelt here were among the dead rather than the fled.

She set about building a fire, using wood that had been neatly stacked up on the outer wall near the back door, and then inspected the abandoned food stores to see what she could rustle up to eat. She had cooked for herself and her mother for years, but had not done much in the last few months while travelling with the Wardens. She had been insulted at the idea of becoming the camp cook when she had so much more to offer, and had pointedly avoided being recruited for that task. Alistair and Lythra had ended up doing most of the cooking and food gathering for the group.

At that moment she did not want to have to depend on Alistair for dinner, however, so she made herself at home in the small house. She had last seen Alistair leaning against Bodhan’s cart, conversing with the dwarven merchant, whom he had last seen a week ago near Ostagar. She had left him to do his catching up, and retreated to find shelter without making it obvious where she was going. Alistair would have to search the houses later if he wanted to find her.

She had her reasons for avoiding him. There was the dangerous voyage into something more than strange bedfellows that had occurred at Redcliffe, and now the fact that she harbored a secret about her visit to Honnleath the day before.

Perhaps she should have just killed the demon before it had a chance to possess the girl, and been done with it. Then she would not have this irritating feeling plaguing her. This… regret? Guilt? Did her conscience prick at her?

Perish the thought.

No, twas something entirely worse.

In her heart she knew that she dreaded the disappointment and anger that would be in Alistair’s eyes when he finally understood that she was what she was and would not change for him. Curse him and his soft, adoring looks. She wished he had never turned such a gaze upon her. Twas maddening. If he had only ever looked at her with suspicion or lust she would not care at all, she would mock his objections, tell him he could take his hypocritical self-righteousness and shove it.

Of what importance was the fate of one stupid little girl too naive to recognize that a talking cat was not her friend? She had been too far gone when they found her, refusing to abandon the cat and return to her father. She was already lost. Why should Morrigan risk everything to save her when she had not the sense to avoid becoming a demon’s plaything?

Morrigan realized that she was having an argument with Alistair in her head, and he didn’t even know what she’d done. Twas most silly. But she already knew all the things he would say if they were to have this debate in reality. She’d known him long enough to predict it all down to the tone and the look. Twas usually quite easy to defeat an imaginary Alistair in hypothetical arguments, so why she kept turning it over in her mind now was frustrating beyond belief.

The stew she prepared was bubbling in the pot which hung over a crackling fire, and she was surveying her culinary creation with satisfaction, when there came a knock on the door. Ah. So she had been found. Likely twas the smoke curling from the chimney and the smell of food wafting into the night air which gave her away, and the only question was which of her companions had been drawn in.

When she opened the door she found Alistair there with Barkspawn beside him. The hound wagged his tail and Alistair smiled, saying, “There you are. I was wondering where you’d gotten off to.”

“Here I am,” she said, leaving the door open but turning back to her work. She added a dash of seasoning to the stew and stirred it with a large wooden spoon.

“You’re cooking,” said Alistair, with a hint of dubious surprise, as he entered the house and shut the door behind him. Barkspawn followed him and sidled up to the hearth, still wagging his stubby tail and cocking his head to the side, obviously angling for a treat.

“Yes,” Morrigan said, to Alistair, pretending that she did not notice Barkspawn’s big puppy eyes. “Tis not so strange, surely.”

“I just remember you saying you wouldn’t cook for us.”

“No, I said twould be a waste of my talents to relegate me to the status of cook,” she said, sniffing. “And besides, I’m cooking for myself, not the group.”

“Ah.”

“Sit down, Alistair,” she said, waving towards the table.

He picked up one of the chairs that still lay on its side and brushed it off, then sat down and folded his hands on the table, twiddling his thumbs and looking around. “This place seems cozy,” he observed. “Nice.”

She lifted the spoon from the pot and carried it over to him, holding her hand underneath it to keep from dripping. He looked at her warily, but she just proffered it to him and said, “Well, go on. Have a taste.”

He leaned forward and she tipped the spoon into his mouth. His eyes never left her face.

“Well?”

“It’s good. It’s wonderful,” he said, settling back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re a better cook than I am.”

“Hmpf, nice try,” she said, returning to the fire. “Tis the ingredients. This kitchen is well stocked. I have more to work with.” She dipped the spoon into the soup and tasted it herself, wrinkling her nose and saying, “You do not think it needs more garlic?”

“Whatever you think.”

“Another clove, at least,” she murmured, then reached for the string of garlic bulbs that hung, along with other herbs, from a rack suspended from the low ceiling.

“This feels weird,” Alistair said after a moment. Barkspawn had gone to his side and he was scratching the hound behind the ears.

“What does?”

“Being in this house, among these things…”

“I do not understand.”

“I mean, none of this belongs to us, and it’s all just as the villagers left it.”

“Ah. I am no thief, Alistair. These people are dead, they have no ownership over this place anymore. Would you have this food rot and the space gather dust when we have need of it?”

“No. It’s just… weird. Gives me the creeps.”

“Well, you need not stay and you need not eat the stew I have prepared.”

“Don’t be so defensive.”

“Don’t be so delicate about the necessities of survival,” she retorted, reaching up to bring down a round loaf of bread that was tucked away on the shelf, wrapped up in linen. Twas a day or two old, baked before the previous inhabitant of this home had been slaughtered, but she knew twould still be good dipped in the stew. She pulled aside the linen and set the loaf on the table, then brandished a long knife over it as she said, “They are dead and we are not. We shall use their resources and be glad we are not them.”

“Alright,” he said, watching her saw into the tough crust, which crackled under the knife’s pressure. “I wasn’t trying to be ungrateful. I was just thinking that this would be nice under other circumstances.”

“Food and shelter is nice under any circumstance.”

He sighed heavily, and said with deliberate patience, “I meant, being here like this, in a cozy little house, a warm fire in the hearth… eating dinner with you. And Barkspawn.”

The dog woofed happily at the sound of his name and nudged Morrigan’s leg.

“Oh yes,” she said, her lips turning down in an acerbic frown. “We are quite the picture of domestic bliss, are we not?”

“If you ignore the fact that we’re in a village that was almost entirely wiped out by darkspawn, in some dead people’s home, sure.”

She turned away, putting her back to him as she went to a shabby old cupboard that stood against the wall and pulled out a pair of clay bowls.

“Don’t be absurd. Do not imagine for yourself a happy life with me as your simpering wife, heavy with child, cooking your meals and rubbing your feet after a long day herding druffalo in the hinterlands.”

“Wh-hat?” he said, barely able to get the word out around incredulous laughter. “I never once imagined that with you.”

“Do not laugh at me. I know what your deepest desires are, and the mundanity that lies within your heart.” She ladled stew into the bowl with vehemence as she spoke, punctuating each sentence with a wet plop of vegetables hitting clay. “You wish for _family,_ for the happy picture of domesticity that is a mother and father doting over their children, content in having successfully proliferated their bloodline so they can stop striving for anything in life, and simply give up and die.”

“What on earth is wrong with you?”

“I have no such desire to fall into that trap.” There was a jar filled with tin spoons nearby and she plucked one out.

“Morrigan,” he said, slowly, “I’m a Grey Warden. You’re an apostate. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to imagine us as, I don’t know, farmers or whatever you’re going on about?”

She did not know what she had been expecting as a response, but twas not that. She wordlessly dropped the bowl of stew down in front of him, and a little bit of it slopped over the side. The spoon fell out and clattered on the table.

“Thanks,” he said, with as much sarcasm as a person could put into the one word.

“You do want a family one day,” she told him, returning to the pot to fill up her own bowl. She thought that she said it evenly, neutrally, with none of the ire that she had allowed to color her previous words.

“Do you mean, realistically? I can’t have children. Wardens don’t have children.”

“You are capable of it.”

“I mean… maybe. But it’s unlikely. It happens very rarely and when it does, you have to give up your child, give it away to family if you have any… the Chantry if you don’t.”

She sat down opposite him and held her hands against the warmth of the bowl. He had grabbed a piece of bread and used it to sop up the spilled soup and now started to munch on it thoughtfully, giving her wary eyes.

“So then, Wardens are like Circle Mages, forbidden from the domestic rituals others count as inevitable,” she said, swirling her spoon through the stew, looking down at chunks of potato and green flecks of sage.

“It’s just not part of the deal. It doesn’t even happen most of the time because of the taint. So it’s not something we plan for, you know? I got the run down when I had my Joining. Quick death if you can’t stomach the blood cocktail… otherwise; short life, no children, hear the Calling and go to your death in about twenty to thirty years if you’re lucky, get crushed by an ogre if you’re not, either way horrible darkspawn nightmares, congratulations here’s your griffon plate, hope you look good in blue. Huzzah. That’s it. That’s my life from here on out.”

He sounded very nonchalant, speaking through mouthfuls of broth soaked bread, but there was a sadness to the acceptance of such a grim life.

“But you dreamt of family, in the fade,” she said, pressing.

He sighed. “I asked Solomae to keep that between us,” he lamented.

“Twas a foolish hope.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Anyway, yeah, I had this delusion of my sister loving me like I was a real brother, not just… an unwanted bastard child who killed our mother. I imagined myself the doting uncle to her children. But even in my wildest dreams I didn’t see myself with a wife or children.”

“Well,” she said, brusquely, “tis good that you do not imagine such a life with me.”

“I don’t even know how we got to this subject. All I said was that it was sort of nice, if a little creepy, here. I suppose I thought that in a different life, you know… in a different world, without magic or Blights… if we were different people… every night could be in a house, instead of camp.”

“I do not want to live in a world without magic,” she told him, severely. “And we would have to be very different people, indeed, to have any sort of future together. I do not want you fantasizing about a simple life.”

“I’m not fantasizing about anything. Anyway, it seems I can’t say anything right, lately. You always end up pissed at me and reading too much into it.”

She did not argue with that. Instead, she said, seemingly apropos of nothing, “I have done something you would consider evil.”

There, it was out. She would not hide it. Let him be upset with her if he must.

He froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“When I was here yesterday I encountered a demon. I made a deal with it. Twas necessary to obtain the information needed to free the stone golem from its stasis.”

“Maker’s breath,” he said, setting the spoon down. “What kind of deal?”

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop again in a shrug. “Twas locked away in a prison devised by a long deceased mage. I freed it.”

“So the golem, Shale… is it a demon?” he asked, knitting his forehead in confusion.

“No. Well, perhaps. I cannot really say what the golem is,” she said. “But the demon was a different matter. We could not obtain the phrase that would free the golem without first dealing with the demon.”

“You couldn’t kill it?”

“I did not try to kill it.”

“So you set it free.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where it is now?”

“Yes.”

He spread out his hands in a wordless prompt, his face questioning.

“Tis inside a little girl. Amalia.”

_“What?”_

“Amalia. You met her earlier with her father, Matthias, when they were preparing to leave Honnleath to flee the Blight,” she said, calmly. “Blonde braids? Quiet girl?”

Despite the look of horror on his face, she felt good about saying this. Twas much preferable to getting into silly arguments about nothing at all.

“Yeah, no, I know who you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m just… Maker’s breath, you set a demon loose and now it’s possessed a child?”

“Yes. And twas not an accident. The demon wished to take possession of the girl and I agreed to stand aside and let it happen, for the girl would not return to her father without the demon and we needed the girl to be safely returned to him before he would give us the password.”

“You let it happen _on purpose?_ Why? After you saw what happened to Connor… and everything that happened at Redcliffe…?”

“As I said, the girl refused to leave the cellar without the demon. It had already charmed her and she would hear no words spoken against it. Truly, she was already lost by the time we found her.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said, with rather a lot of conviction for someone who hadn’t even been there. “She wasn’t possessed yet. You could have fought the demon, killed it before it took hold of her.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps the spirit twould have possessed her soon as we provoked it and then we would have no choice but to kill the girl. Who can say? Giving the demon what it wanted seemed the more expeditious course of action. I did what I thought best.”

“And now a little girl is an abomination.” His face had gone pale and he gripped the edge of the table as if to steady himself. “Morrigan… you of all people… how can you be so glib about this?”

“Do you allude to my mother and her plans for me?” Morrigan responded, coolly.

“Yes! We killed Flemeth so her evil would not continue, so that she couldn’t steal your body or anyone else’s!”

“And I am glad of that.”

“But you see nothing wrong with what you did? With letting another person be possessed?”

“No. As I said, the girl was already lost, a thrall to the demon’s will, and I had no desire to risk my life in order to kill the demon. Nor, I might add, did Aedan, or Duran, or Natia. We were all in agreement. The girl was beyond help.”

He didn’t respond. As she spoke he had put one hand over his face and just shook his head, and now he held that pose, seemingly unable to even put his displeasure into words anymore.

She filled the silence. “I suppose you can have words with Duran and Natia, seeing as you are their Commander, though neither of them seem to ever give much thought to your opinions, I must say. And of course neither Aedan nor myself are Wardens, and do not need to heed you at all, though in all fairness you could ask us to simply leave if you feel we are not upholding the sort of ideal the Grey Wardens promote.”

He sighed heavily behind his hand. Then suddenly he sat upright, revealing his face and looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Morrigan,” he said, “is this all because you want to prove to me how independent you are and how little you agree with my beliefs, my values? Please tell me this little girl did not get turned into an abomination because you felt you needed to prove a point to me.”

She laughed. “No, Alistair, this had nothing to do with you. We needed the girl returned safely to her father, to appease him, and the only way to do that twas to deal with the demon. So I did it the way I saw fit.”

“Fine,” he said, standing up, pushing the chair back hard enough that it skittered across the floor and knocked against the wall. Barkspawn leapt up from his spot next to the hearth, ready to move wherever his master went.

“Where are you going?”

“Out. To patrol the edge of town, make sure there aren’t any bands of darkspawn coming to raid the village again,” he said woodenly.

“I hope you are not thinking of going out to find the girl and provoke the demon,” Morrigan said, twisting in her chair to watch him as he crossed the room. “It has not harmed her or anyone else, and since you cannot drive it out, all you will end up doing is killing Amalia. We do not have Jowan here or a willing sacrifice for his blood magic, so there will be no saving her as Connor was.”

He’d had his hand on the door but he stopped abruptly and wheeled back around to face her. “I have no intention of hunting down the little girl,” he said. His face was drawn and eyes tight as he looked down at her. “Do you know, when I was in training to be a templar they told me constantly that I would have to be prepared to strike down abominations, even if it meant skewering children on a sword, and I always dreaded having to do that. Do you think I liked it when we visited Kinloch Hold and had to fight our way through all those people, those abominations and blood mages? Do you still imagine, at this point, that Alistair loves to hunt mages?”

“No,” she said softly. “But you might think it your duty.”

“It’s not.”

“This spirit is not like the one that inhabited Connor. It only wants to see the world through Amalia’s eyes. Twill not cause trouble.”

“Don’t call it a spirit. It’s a demon. And demons lie to get what they want. Or didn’t Flemeth teach you that?”

She jutted her chin out and said quickly, “Do not talk about my mother.”

“Why not? I killed her for you, I don’t get to talk about her?”

“I do not like your tone.”

“And I don’t like your arrogant, conceited belief that you get to bargain with the lives of others.”

She stood up, pusing her chair away, so that he could not loom over her quite so much. He was still tall enough to look down on her, but she could raise herself up and hold her head high better on her feet than seated. “Well go then,” she said haughtily, “go on your patrol. And while you wander the empty streets you may ponder why you desire a woman you despise. I think it says more about you than I that you cannot abide anything about me but have no problem sharing my bed.”

He faltered. “I… I don’t despise you,” he said. “I am dis—”

“Do _not_ say disappointed,” she cut him off. “You do not get to be disappointed in me.”

“Why not? I think it’s a reasonable reaction.”

“When did I promise to agree with your opinions on what is right? When did I promise to follow your moral compass? Tell me, Alistair, for I do not remember this conversation.”

“I didn’t think that you would endorse or enable demonic possession,” he said. “Clearly I was wrong.”

“The child was already lost.”

“So you keep saying.”

She took a step closer to him, challenging him. He did not move away from her. “I am as I have always been, as you have always thought of me. The sneaky witch, selfish and amoral, cruel and callous.” She brushed the back of her hand against his face. “My door is open to you, Alistair, but when you come knocking do not expect to find a different person.”

She kissed him, putting her arms around his neck. He didn’t hold her or kiss her back, but neither did he move away. She pressed her body against his, more insistently, trying to provoke a response of some kind. Either he would break and admit that he cared only for the pleasure of her embrace or he would stand his ground. If he put his arms round her waist or returned her kiss, she would know she had won.

Alistair gently, but firmly, removed her arms from his shoulders and pushed her away, breaking the kiss.

“Thank you for the stew,” he said, then he turned from her and opened the door.

Barkspawn yipped with uncertainty, still hoping for a treat before leaving, but Morrigan did not look at the dog. She watched Alistair’s tense back as he walked out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

She was left alone in the empty house for the rest of the night.

She thought he might come back. She listened for the knock. But it did not come, and she lay alone on the bed as the fire died in the hearth and the house grew colder. The mattress was stuffed with straw and was lumpy and uncomfortable, poking itchily through the fabric. It sagged in the middle, shaped to the body of someone who no longer lived, and her pragmatic outlook did not keep her from shivering a little as she thought of the ghost of the villager coming back to curl itself round her and breathe cold puffs of spirit breath onto her neck where Alistair’s warmth usually was.

Silly thoughts. Strange bedfellows, indeed.

* * *

In the morning they all reconvened in the square. The sun was rising in blushes of pink and orange over the horizon to the east, while the mountains rose in shadows to the west. They would head towards the mountains, away from the sun.

She saw Matthias and Amalia at a distance. They were preparing to head east, and Matthias gazed towards Shale, his eyes narrow, before placing a hand on his daughter’s back to steer her away from the golem. Amalia looked back at Shale as well, but there was no fear on her face, just curiosity. Morrigan thought twas the demon who observed the golem and pondered its nature as a curiosity rather than a monster, one spirit inhabiting a body not its own studying another. Then the girl’s eyes trailed to Morrigan, before allowing Matthias to lead her away.

Her fate was Matthias’ fault, Morrigan thought, stubbornly. He had not prepared his daughter to resist the lure of demons or recognize one when it appeared to her in the beguiling form of a talking cat. If he had prepared her for the dangers she would face, she would not have been susceptible, she would not have even needed rescuing, she would not have invited the demon in.

Flemeth had taught Morrigan about magic and demons and the fade at a far younger age than Amalia was now. There was no excuse for bad parenting.

She wondered if the girl’s soul was gone entirely, or in agony trapped somewhere far below the surface as the demon now controlled her body and her life.

She supposed she was truly wondering about Flemeth, about the ancient spirit that was her “mother.” Was the woman who had raised her nothing more than a demon that inhabited the body of someone whose life was stolen long ago, or did something of the host remain? Who had Flemeth been as a girl, and when had she become the Witch of the Wilds, the asha'bellanar, as Lythra’s people called her?

That evil spirit was still out there, somewhere, and when it found purchase again in this world it would be coming for Morrigan once more, for revenge or to claim what it believed belonged to it, or both. Twas ironic that the self-preservation her mother had taught her was her only protection against that very thing. If there truly was hope for her.

Perhaps the girl was already lost.

“I hope that’s the last we see of them,” said a voice at Morrigan’s elbow. Twas Natia Brosca.

“Agreed,” she responded.

“We couldn’t have saved her, you know,” Natia said, as if she thought Morrigan needed the reassurance. “Anyway, I’m not going to lose sleep over it.”

“Nor I.”

“So, you told Alistair all about it.”

Morrigan turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

“We were keeping watch for darkspawn last night,” Natia explained. “He brought it up, was upset about it. Told me I should have done something about it, that it’s a Grey Wardens job to protect the helpless, and all that. I mean, I agree with that to an extent, but you can’t save everyone, can you? Ah well, I didn’t enjoy the scolding, but I just said 'alright I won’t let it happen again' and he kind of ran out of steam.”

“I see.”

“I’m surprised you told him. I sort of figured it would be our little secret. Well, you and me and Duran and Aedan.”

“I did not want to lie.”

“Right, right, but there’s lying and then there’s just, you know, not bringing it up.”

“I wanted him to know.”

Natia shook her head with a bemused smile. “Can’t say I understand that. I mean you  _ knew _ he was going to get all pissy about it, but I guess that’s not for me to understand. The two of you are strange.”

Morrigan just nodded absently and said nothing. She was disinclined to ask what Natia meant by “strange” or to argue against it.

They struck out from Honnleath, leaving the few villagers who would not abandon their homes to their fates. Shale accompanied them, for though the control rod did not work to actually control the golem anymore, it decided that the Grey Wardens made for adequate company and that their quest to stop the Blight was more interesting than wandering aimlessly about on its own.

Morrigan walked with Natia the entire day, as they hiked into the mountains. The golem shuffled ponderously after them, seeming very interested in Morrigan and her shapeshifting abilities. Morrigan found the attention somewhat off-putting and the questions annoying, but beyond a few taunts about turning into a bird just to menace the golem from a distance, she tried to keep responses neutral. She didn’t want to provoke Shale into squashing her, after all.

She very purposefully left Alistair alone, as she knew that he was avoiding her.

She let him be surrounded by his two best friends, Leliana and Wynne. Those two women suited him so much better than she did, truly. She wondered why he even bothered with her at all.

Wynne might be too old for his tastes, but Leliana was still a beauty, as simpering and annoying as she was. Alistair might think she only enjoyed the company of other women, but Morrigan could see the way she looked at him, even if he could not. Leliana could surely love him the way he wanted to be loved, giving him all the sentimentality his heart could ever desire.

Even Lythra, as wounded by her love Tamlen’s death as she was, might one day recover enough to open her heart again, and might reconsider her rejection of him. Anyone would be better for him than Morrigan was.

This thought made her curiously angry. She did not feel a charitable desire to step aside and let another take her place. She would not chase him like a pathetic, desperate fool, or engage in undignified catfights with the other woman on his account. But she didn’t have to be happy about it. He had been hers, however briefly, and she had liked it that way.

The further they traveled the colder it got, until snow covered the road into the mountains and drifted from the gray skies. This inclement weather slowed their progress, as did the darkspawn they encountered on the road, but still they trudged ever onwards.

By nightfall it felt as if they had made little progress, though Honnleath was far behind them. There were no other villages for miles around. The road had become less wide, less well traveled, and Bodhan’s cart, laden with goods gathered from the abandoned homes of Honnleath, kept slowing them down as it got stuck on rocks or mired in the cold mud and snow. Twas apparent that few travelers came this way; likely only hunters who might venture up into the mountains looking for game, or bandits whose lairs were hidden in Frostback caves.

When they made camp for the night the space was small and crowded, as they could find only a small area amongst the rocks and snow to pitch their tents and build their fires. Bodhan Fennic’s draft horses seemed especially tired from hauling the cart up the mountain road, and Morrigan wondered why he accompanied them into such inhospitable places. He must hope that the denizens of Haven would be especially eager to purchase his wares, as their village was not on any map and they must not get regular visits from merchants even when there was no Blight.

She set up her tent nearer to the central fire than she usually did, not even bothering to build her own fire. There was no stew for dinner, just dried rations scrounged up in Honnleath, since Lythra was not there to hunt for wild game and Alistair seemed too irritated and morose to cook something hot for them to eat. Twas fine, though. The cured meat and hard cornmeal bread filled Morrigan’s stomach even if it did not warm her.

She shivered alone in her cold tent through the night. She had the ability to cast warming spells, but could not maintain them while she slept, so all she had was her bearskin blanket and fur lined coat to keep her warm. She missed the comforting furnace that was Alistair’s body next to hers, his arms round her in slumber, but she would not venture out to lure him into her tent. He knew where she was. He could come to her.


	16. Building Her Wreck / The Wolf at the Door (The Wilds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that what everyone wants right now is a pause in the narrative for a chapter of pure flashback, so here you go, it's non-canon invented backstory time! Slight content warning; though there is nothing remotely explicit in this chapter, as it expounds on the backstory Morrigan mentions in Chapter 12, it does deal with themes of parental abuse, underage sex, and dubious consent.

When Morrigan was young, still a girl, she already thought herself as worldly-wise as she needed to be. She had helped her mother lure Templars to their deaths, she had ventured out to spy on the Wilderfolk of the Korcari and the Fereldan villagers who lived in the Hinterlands alike. She knew magics that were not practiced by the mages of the Circles and she was skilled in the art of shapeshifting. She felt herself exceedingly wise and all grown-up.

Still, she did not want to do what her mother asked. She had seen enough winters for Flemeth to decide that it was time for her to  _ truly _ become a woman. But she did not like her mother’s idea of what it meant to be grown. She did not want to find a man and bed him. She did not want to have her way with men and discard them the way she had known her mother to do, before. She wished she did not have to prove herself capable in this way. But Mother was impatient for her to be off, speaking of it as a task to be done, a skill to be learned, and something not to make such a fuss about.

Flemeth did not send her out all unknowing and unprepared. Her mother explained everything about how sex worked, about where babies came from, and what magic spells to perform to prevent children from coming, both before and after engaging in the act.

Likely Flemeth thought she would dash out into the woods, find an errant hunter or trapper to seize upon for an erotic encounter, like a crazed wood nymph, and then be home by supper.

But Morrigan did not return home for several months.

She wandered.

She wandered through the woods as a girl, then ran on four paws with the wolves, howling at the moon and frolcking with the pups. She flew above the treetops as a raven, reveling in the wind, and hunted through caverns as a giant spider with venom in her heart. She lumbered through the wilds as a great black bear, eating honey from combs with bees buzzing round her head, then she tried out becoming the bees, living as a swarm, her consciousness spread out among a thousand tiny insects that followed the queen.

She could not forget that she was not these things, though. She was always human. Always Morrigan. And always there was the memory of Flemeth waiting for her at home,  _ tsking _ because  _ my how the girl did dawdle. _ One might almost think she did not want to  _ learn _ how to be a Witch of the Wilds.

Morrigan felt herself a coward. She had seen the mammals rutting, the fish spawning, the birds nesting, the insects tending to their larvae. None in the animal world feared sex and nor should she. And twas not as if Flemeth had asked her to have a baby. She had taught her the spells to guard against such an unpleasant thing.

Eventually, she ended up stalking round the corners of a Chasind village, in her wolf form, watching the people carefully as they went about their lives. The village was on the edge of a vast marshland, and the buildings were all up on stilts, the planks of the walkways between them were old and bowed, crusted with the silt of many floods. She was looking for a likely mate, waiting for someone to catch her eye, but none of the men appealed to her much. They were dirty and loud and oafish, she thought. Altogether too hairy. She might as well have found herself a bear.

Instead, she found herself increasingly drawn to a small dwelling on the outskirts of the village, further uphill from the marsh, where an old woman lived alone. She was as old as Flemeth, though Morrigan did not even know how old Flemeth truly was. Her hair was streaked with grey but had not gone all to white. Her home was on a raised platform but not quite so high off the ground as those in the village.

She fed her chickens and milked her goats, chopped her wood and hauled her water from a stream that trickled down from the woods into the wetlands below. Day after day she went about her tasks all alone, though periodically people from the village would come and she would do business with them. She sold excess eggs or milk or vegetables from the garden, but more often they would come for satchels of herbs, small glass bottles of elixirs, or necklaces and bracelets made of handwoven hemp and leather with beads and trinkets knotted into the length.

The woman made these things as part of her daily routine. Morrigan wondered if there was meant to be magic in the items, power housed in the charms, perhaps glyphs of strength, or luck. The woman brewed up potions, ones Morrigan recognized as rudimentary health poultices or stamina regeneration elixirs, made from elfroot, prophet’s laurel, deep mushroom… basic things any Wilder woodswitch knew how to make.

Twas clear to Morrigan that the woman possessed some small spark of magic. Enough to set her up as a hedge witch, but likely not so talented that any templar would find her a foe worth pursuing. Especially not deep in the wilds far from any Chantry as she was.

Flemeth would have laughed at her quaint sachets and the pittance that the villagers gave her in exchange for her potions and charms. But Morrigan found her interesting to watch. Her life was quiet, peaceful, measured. She interacted with the others but little, and while there seemed no animosity or festering mistrust between her and the other members of the Chasind tribe, they did not seek her out for anything other than her services. She seemed not to have friends or family.

Her name was Sofija.

Morrigan let herself be seen, little by little, curious what the woman would make of a wolf stalking at the corners of her homestead. She was far enough away from the village to be vulnerable to wild animals, but she had primitive wards set up to keep them out. Totems against wolves and foxes and badgers, charms hanging in the trees to ward off bears and evil spirits, that clanked eerily in the breeze both day and night.

Morrigan was neither an animal nor a spirit, and the wards did nothing to her. She saw other wards, too, charms of summoning, magical beacons that called out into the forest, signaling home and love and family. Twas as if the woman sought to keep the wild animals and spirits out but wanted someone else to come. This intrigued Morrigan, and she crept closer, inspecting them with the eyes of a wolf and the mind of a clever girl. They had been there a long, long time.

One morning, a cold Korcari spring morning when the mist shrouded the earth and licked its way through the trees, Morrigan sat in the walkway that led from Sofija’s home out into the woods.

Morrigan knew she would be seen when Sofija came outside to pluck eggs from beneath the hens. She wanted to know what the woman would do. Would she scream and run into the village, sounding the alarm? Would she brandish a makeshift weapon and try to chase Morrigan away? Would she unleash a destructive spell, showing heretofore unrealized magic?

Sofija did none of these things. She saw Morrigan plain as day, a wolf sitting still as stone in the mist, watching with preternatural yellow eyes, and she did not flinch. She went about her day, gathering the eggs into a basket, petting her hens and cooing to them, letting them out into the yard and scattering feed from her apron. Then set about tending her goats, two she-goats who waddled up to the milking stand with their ponderous udders patterned in mottled black and brown.

_ Curious, _ Morrigan thought, watching steam rise from the buckets into the misty morning air. Sofija sang a Chasind work song as she milked, a milking song to keep rhythm as she tugged on the udders. Then she fed her goats molasses soaked grain and left them tied up outside while she went back in to pour the buckets through fine linen, straining it into bottles.

Twas all a bit disappointing, really. There was a wolf at the door, and neither the woman nor the animals seemed spooked in the least. Morrigan trotted off into the woods, thinking about this, and did not come back again until the next morning.

She sat in the same place, her tail wrapped around her paws, and watched.

This time, when Sofija emerged from her house, yawning and clutching a clay mug, scratching her backside, she glanced towards the path and nodded to Morrigan. As if to say,  _ good morning. _

Morrigan disappeared into the underbrush whenever other villagers came to call. But the next time Sofija cinched up her pack and headed into the woods to gather mushrooms, Morrigan followed behind her on the path, closer and closer until she was walking beside her.

“Hello, little wolfling,” said Sofija, bending to pluck a redcap from a rotting log. “You are far from home.”

The hedge witch would often walk that path to gather honey from beehives or to hunt for mushrooms that grew in rotting wood by the water’s edge, and she would gather sticks to kindle her fires and scrape moss from rocks to add to her poultices and sachets.

This became a routine, of sorts. Morrigan would appear, whether in the woods or at the edge of the homestead, and Sofija would greet her and call her  _ wolfling.  _ She began to talk to Morrigan, in the way she had talked to her chickens or her goats, in the way Morrigan had seen other people talk to their cats and dogs—speaking without expecting a response, sometimes interpreting a quirk of the head or wag of the tale the way she saw fit, filling in the words for her. Twas a comfortable non-conversation, though it still left Morrigan wondering if Sofija knew there was an intelligent being behind the wolf’s eyes, or if she simply projected her own thoughts onto what she assumed was a particularly sociable beast.

Twas several more days before Morrigan decided to walk up to the woman in her own skin. She wanted to know if Sofija would recognize her, if she were canny enough to know that the wolf was a girl and the girl was a mage. She did not want to transform in front of her, for that twould give the game away.

Sofija was seated outside her home, on the raised porch, near the back door, watching the sunset and puffing on a pipe. The smoke that billowed from her mouth was fragrant, aromatic, a heady mix of herbs that Morrigan had sniffed at on the wind as a wolf before even drawing near the Chasind village the first time.

Morrigan came strolling down the path from the woods and up to the steps that led to the porch, as if she were a villager come to buy a potion, except that twas obvious she had come from the woods to the north, not the village to the south.

Sofija balanced the pipe on her lips and exhaled a ring of smoke into the air. “Hello, little witchling,” she said. “And what is it, that old Sofija can do for you?”

“I have decided that I need a new mother, for mine is no good,” said Morrigan, and Sofija coughed and removed the pipe from her mouth.

“Well, not one for long greetings, are we?”

Morrigan frowned.

“Your mother has taught you no manners,” Sofija said. “What is your name, child? From where do you come?”

“My name is Morrigan. Where I come from matters not,” Morrigan said. “I have been watching you these past few weeks. You are alone. You need a daughter. I have need of a new mother.”

Sofija chuckled. “I like living alone. It suits me fine, and if you’ve been prowling around my home for weeks you might have noticed that.”

“You have an empty room in your home, a bed that no one sleeps on. Toys line a shelf, a ragdoll and some wooden blocks. You had a child once.”

Sofija’s calm air of bemusement changed, subtly. She narrowed her eyes at Morrigan thoughtfully. Then she said, “And you are a changeling come in from the wilds to fill that void, are you?”

Morrigan sat down on the middle step. “I could be your apprentice,” she said, modifying her argument. She had given this much thought and after days listening to Sofija’s one sided rambling, she had felt she understood the old woman quite well. But perhaps twould require more… subtlety? “I could help with your chores and you could teach me your magic.”

“What could I teach you, wolf child?” Sofija tapped her pipe idly against the arm of her chair. “I have but a small bit of knowledge, a spark of light; you are a torch that burns brightly.”

“Then perhaps I could teach you.”

“To what end? I am an old woman living out my last days in solitude. I have no ambition beyond what you see here. It’s a good life and I like it.”

“Very well,” said Morrigan, and stood. She took a few steps down the path.

A reluctant sigh stopped her. “Wait,” said the old woman. “Come here and tell me of this terrible mother of yours, the one you have run away from.”

Morrigan returned. She climbed the steps all the way and sat, her legs crossed, on the smooth swept planks of wood near Sofija’s feet. “I did not run away,” she told her. “She put me out. She thinks it time I became a woman.”

“And is it?”

“I’m not a child anymore,” Morrigan said, setting her chin in a way she had done many times with Flemeth, when she made that declaration. “I’ve had my first blood. And second and third and—”

“Yes, I get the idea. Not quite a woman, not still a child. A difficult time. I can see why a mother might want some peace and quiet in her home.”

“She is a harpy.”

“I see.”

“And she told me I could not come home till I’d had my way with a man.”

“To what end?” Sofija asked, but only after a long moment of silence, in which Morrigan gazed off into the woods, watching the fireflies darting to and fro in the twilight.

“A rite of passage. To prove that I can.”

“You are very young,” Sofija said thoughtfully, looking her up and down, trying to suss her out. Finally she asked, “How many namedays have you seen?”

“Namedays?”

“How old are you?”

“My mother says that marking the passage of years is a needless vanity,” Morrigan told her. “But I can recall the passage of twelve winters, at least, since I started paying attention to that sort of thing.”

“Hmm,” said Sofija, and Morrigan was not sure if twas a note of disapproval or concern in her voice. “Well, perhaps you will be useful around the place,” she conceded at last.

Morrigan smiled. She knew the woman who conversed with the wolf would come around, in the end.

Sofija stood. “Come inside,” she said. “You can sleep in my son’s old bed. And yes, your instincts told you right, I had a child once. His name was Kyrdan. He grew up into a fine man and left home long ago. I keep a few toys to remember the time when he was a sweet young lad, but the last I saw him he was older than you. He was restless and wanted to see the world beyond the Wilds.”

“Will he come back?” Morrigan asked.

“I doubt it. Sixteen winters have come and gone. He has either forgotten me and found a new life, or met an end, like his father before him. I have made my peace with this.”

“And yet you still keep his bed made,” said Morrigan. “And carve his name in runes on the totems you place in the woods.”

“Such an observant, sharp eyed little wolfling,” Sofija said. But she left it at that.

* * *

Twas easy to settle into life with Sofija. Twas hardly any different than life with Flemeth, except that Sofija was kinder, and had no demands, and there was the village nearby. The Chasind folk visited Sofija the same as always, and now she introduced them to Morrigan. When they asked who she was, she said something near the truth: Sofija’s apprentice, who had been sent from her own village to learn. Twas not far off the mark. Flemeth  _ had _ sent her away to learn something.

What she learned, she thought, was that she did not have to do what Flemeth said. She could find herself a new “Mother.” A better one. One that suited her just fine.

She got comfortable there. She made herself a little niche. She had no worries beyond the day to day of the woodswitch’s life. Feed the chickens, milk the goats, tend the garden, make poultices, elixirs, and salves. Sofija taught her to carve small statues out of wood or mold them from clay, and to weave necklaces and make charms, teaching her about the animistic deities of the forest and the marsh that her people revered. The Chasind had an earthy, primitive connection to the magic of the world, different from and yet similar to Flemeth’s arcane knowledge. Their gods were avatars of the woods and the wild.

There was a young man who came to Sofija’s house often. He was newly married and his wife was carrying their first child, and he would often drop in asking for salves and elixirs to help her with the pain and swelling. She complained of swollen feet, he said; aching back, tender breasts, strange cravings, and all other matter of ailments. One day he said she was afraid all her hair was falling out.

Morrigan thought the trials of pregnancy seemed a uniquely horrible thing. Animals never seemed to suffer so expansively as human women did. The thought of one day being burdened with a creature growing ever larger in her grossly distended stomach was deeply off putting to her.

The man was named Styorkvak and he always had a greeting and a smile for Morrigan. She did not think much of it at first. He had a wife, clearly, as that was the whole reason for his repeated visits to Sofija. Was it not?

But as weeks wore on, he kept coming day after day, with a new request, and always a smile for Morrigan, even lingering to speak with her, and she began to understand. He was not happy at home with his young wife, pregnant and irritable and growing less appealing by the day. He asked Sofija for an elixir that would improve his wife’s mood, not just take away the pains she complained of but restore her personality to what it had been before she fell ill with the child.

Sofija, not usually one to judge or meddle, asked him what exactly he expected as the end result. How he thought his wife might change. “I do not want to  _ change _ her,” he insisted. “I just want her to be like she was before. Happy to see me, to be with me, to share our bed.”

Sofija gave him something she said would do the trick, but after he left she told Morrigan twas nothing more than a bit of honey and sweet berry juice mixed with weak ale. “I despise a man who cannot leave his wife alone long enough for her to give birth to the babe he put in her,” she grumbled. And then she warned, “Be careful how you smile and speak to that one. He’s restless and he does not visit here so often because he cares so deeply about his wife. I would bet the moon and the stars on it.”

“I could make myself scarce when he comes calling,” Morrigan said.

“I think it best you did.”

Flemeth would have told her to use this man’s obvious need to further her own ends; to give him what he thought he wanted and to take something from him while he was at her mercy. She could almost hear her mother’s voice telling her, “What are you waiting for? Get it over with and come home, girl. You have played hedge witch long enough.”

But the next day when Styorkvak returned, complaining that his night had not been nearly as pleasant as he’d hoped, Morrigan was not to be seen. She was there, but perched on the roof as a raven, watching and listening with her head cocked quizzically to the side. Styorkvak lamented that the elixir had made his wife no more affable than before, and demanded Sofija give him something else free of charge. This she did, giving him another bottle of a no doubt useless palliative, along with some advice to be patient and wait for the babe to come. He said he didn’t expect anything to get better, that having a babe nursing at her breast would not make her hate him any less, and he lingered for an embarrassing amount of time, casting his gaze about for Morrigan. But eventually he left.

“If he comes back again I will tell him I can do no more for him,” said Sofija. “If he does not receive the message, I may have to become more stern.” Morrigan agreed that she did not wish to see him again. “And so you shall not,” Sofija assured her, patting her arm reassuringly. “And so you shall not.”

* * *

Morrigan did not spend so very much time in that village, as Sofija’s apprentice. Mere months. She arrived in the spring and twas only autumn when she left again.

The end began when she woke one morning to find Sofija still abed, which was a strange thing, for the old woman always woke exceedingly early and often Morrigan would not wake until she was disturbed by the sounds of Sofija moving about.

She sensed a wrongness to it right away. There was a curious lack about the room, a void in the bed where Sofija lay, as if she were there but not there. If not for this, Morrigan might have let her sleep, let her indulge in one late morning.

When she crept near to the bed, her own breath billowing in the chill morning air, she noted that no such cloud emanated from Sofija’s mouth. No gentle swell and fall disturbed the blankets. The quiet was eerie.

The old woman had ceased to breathe sometime in the night. Morrigan did not know why. She had seen the dead before, had seen her share of templars or wilders slain by magic and hung from the trees to rot into skeletal warnings. But she could not comprehend this uneventful passage into death. No sickness, no wound, no warning. The idea that one could go to bed the same as any night and simply not wake chilled her, even as she struggled to believe twas so.

She tried to cast healing spells, to warm the body and restore the breath, to jerk the heart back into a steady beat, but twas too late. The body had lain for some time and was already cold, the limbs stiff, the soul far away on its journey through the Fade to whatever mysteries lay beyond.

Morrigan went outside and sat down on the steps, staring out at the pale blush of the sunrise. The birds were already well on their way to welcoming the day, chirping and cooing from their hidden perches in the bushes and trees. She stared up at the leaves, thinking, why not fly away as one of them? Clearly she had nested here too long, become too comfortable, too content.

She got up and went to the shed. She let the chickens out into the yard and gathered eggs from their roost. The cock crowed once, twice, thrice, as if anyone needed to be told that the day was started. Morrigan tucked the eggs into an apron tied round her waist. Only five that morning. She milked the goats and carried the pails back into the house, where the cold empty body lay, and she poured the warm fresh milk into the empty jars.

She could do this every day, she thought. She could tend to these animals and to the garden, she could gather honey and mushrooms and kindling sticks from the woods all by herself, the same as Sofija had done for the past sixteen years, ever since her son had gone away.

Twould not be a bad life. She had more magic than Sofija, she could be the news woodswitch, she could grow old here respected by the Chasind, perhaps even become their shaman one day, if she had the ambition for it. Flemeth might even forget about her, and never come looking, never care to find out what had kept her.

No one came calling as the hours passed, and so she ventured out, carrying the eggs and the new milk. She would not have said she was going to the home of Styorkvak and his wife, who was every day heavier with child, but that is where her feet took her.

She found Styorkvak all alone, and she told him she had come with a delivery of milk and eggs, and asked idly where his wife had gone. To her mother, he said, and her sisters, to complain and to commiserate. She was often away, she could hardly stand the sight of him, she said every day that she hadn’t wanted to marry and cursed him for putting a baby in her.

This slipped out easily, the same as it did when he came to Sofija’s and asked for an elixir that would improve her mood. When he complained that she would not lie with him anymore. Morrigan did not find such whinging about one’s wife to be particularly alluring, but as she stood there listening to him complain, she thought,  _ If I bed this fool who hates his wife I could go home to Mother. Twould be easy. _

“She does not appreciate all you do for her,” she said, setting first the bottle of milk and then the satchel of eggs onto the table. “No other husband visits Sofija so often, with no other thought than to bring relief to his wife. The other pregnant women of the village have to walk all the way themselves, on aching feet and swollen ankles. She is ungrateful.”

He smiled, clearly glad to have found a sympathetic ear.

Morrigan shed her clothing, then, without saying anything. She did not think she needed to keep talking in order to seduce him. Every time she had smiled back at him when he came to Sofija’s looking for her she had given him all the hope he needed to accept this unexpected visit.

As soon as she had dropped her tunic to the floor he was on her, and it did not take long to complete her task after that. Not long at all.

The wife came home from her family visit before Morrigan had a chance to leave, and she was forced to flee in a flurry of feathers, taking her raven form to escape the rage of the wronged woman. Oh, she could have defended herself, she could have done anything with just a flick of her hand, a blaze of magic, but she had no wish to harm the woman. Not any more than she had already done by taking her husband in their marriage bed while she was mere days away from birthing his child. Twas insult enough.

Morrigan flew back to Sofija’s and put on a change of clothes. She did not expect to ever see the garments she had left behind at Styorkvak’s house. She did not care. She had always dressed in whatever bits and pieces of leather and rags that she could find when she spied on the outskirts of humanity, so she was not attached to anything.

She looked around at the place she had begun, treacherously enough, to think of as home. She contemplated the house on its raised platform, the porch where she and Sofija had sat many a day watching the sun rise and set. She let her eyes linger upon the shed, the garden, the chickens, and the goats. She gazed at the workbench where Sofija had shown her how to carve Chasind idols from soft wood, and the cauldron where she brewed up her weak potions to sell to villagers in want of a little magic. Twas all so peaceful and homey, no more glamorous than Flemeth’s house built up against the old tower, but it had a glow about it, an inviting aura that lingered still though its owner did not.

Sofija’s wards, her spells and charms that she had woven into the fabric of this place over the years, still remained. Twould have been nice, perhaps, to dig herself in and stay in this place, to be the apprentice who inherited this one little spot in the Wilds, at the edge of the Wilder village. If she had been Sofija’s daughter and not Flemeth’s, she could have stayed.

She did not know if the women of the village would come down and drive her off, would call her a whore and tell her to leave, if they would fear that she would seduce their husbands one by one by one. She imagined that they would. They had been kind and polite to her when she was Sofija’s apprentice, but surely she was still an outsider. She had not been there long enough to become one of them, and now Styorkvak’s angry wife would be sure to let everyone know that the little witch was trouble.

She did not wait to find out. She did not wait for them to come and find Sofija dead in her bed, still, where she had gone to sleep the night before, a living woman, full of warmth, healthy but for her advancing age. The Chasind of this village gave their dead to the bog, wrapping them up in a cocoon of leaves and sending their bodies to sink into the waters of the swamp. There they would mingle with the mud and the peat and become truly wild.

She did not wait. She left the house, the garden, the chickens and the goats. She walked into the woods as a girl… no, as a woman. Had not that been the task? Had that not been why Flemeth had sent her away, and why she would now welcome her back? Her mother had said not to return until she had a story to tell. Morrigan would tell her of the husband who regretted getting his wife with child and who yearned for younger, untouched flesh, and she would speak of the angry cow wife, laden with her unwanted brat, screaming and throwing eggs at the bed where Morrigan and Styorkvak had lain naked and entwined. Flemeth would laugh. She would ask what Morrigan had learned, and Morrigan would tell her that she’d learned men were useless, weak, impatient creatures, and that pregnancy made even pretty girls turn into harridans, so angry at their lot in life.

She would not tell her about Sofija, though. She would not tell her about the widow with a whisper of magic who made her home at the edge of the village, waiting for her son to return. She would not tell her about the woman who had set wards of calling, wards of summoning, charms to light her wayward offspring home and had carried that spark of hope for sixteen years.

It had been sad to look upon these useless bits of wilder magic, to gaze at the knots of rope and bits of bone and wood and clay and glass beads tied to the limbs of the nearby trees, and to know they had hung there through so many winters, to no avail. She had slept in the bed that Sofija had kept made up for her son, who had never come home, and she had wondered if filling the spot that was not meant for her was a kindness or a cruelty, in the end.

Her own mother was more like Sofija’s son, uncaring and cruel in her lack of love. Twas not fair that some mothers longed for the return of their child and others treated their daughters as irritants to be gotten rid of, to send out on errands from which they might never return. If she had learnt anything twas that love was a misguided thing, seldom directed towards those who deserved it, or even wanted to receive it. The son had never come back, no matter how many charms were hung from trees that grew up round the shed, or runes painted on the walls of the home, no matter how many piles of stones were arranged just so on the edges of the path that led from the Wilds to Sofija’s home. All that had come up that path was a witchling wolf, all that had been drawn in was a child not her own.

* * *

She went back to Flemeth, who was the same as always, who scolded her for taking so long to do “such an easy thing” and who had laughed heartily at the tale of the pregnant wife walking in on her husband with a girl in his bed. Just as Morrigan had known that she would. Flemeth took a fiendish sort of delight in the utter disappointment that was men.

Flemeth’s home had no goats or chickens, but there was a garden, and Morrigan knew where to find the bees that made their honey in hollowed out trees. Twas not so very different from Sofija’s home, in the end, and no villages resided close enough for them to get visitors.

Not until the Grey Wardens came tromping into the Wilds, looking for darkspawn and ancient scrolls.

Several years had passed since she spent a summer in Sofija’s home. She had not always been at Flemeth’s side in that time, but she had come and gone on her own accord.

Morrigan watched the intruders in her wolf form for a while. There were two elves, a male and female. The girl had the marks of the Dalish tribes whose territory lay to the east, where the swamplands gave way to denser, drier forests. With them were two human men, one quite tall and loud, and on his shield was marked the heraldry of the Chantry's templars. He seemed to be escorting the others, and as she listened to their conversations she gathered that he was a Grey Warden and these other three were new recruits. _A Grey Warden and a Templar both, how curious._ This was not a combination she had thought possible.

Twas a fateful meeting, though she did not guess it then. When they came to the ruins and started rooting about in old chests, she reverted to her human self, and spoke to them, her curiosity getting the better of her. They were an unlikely bunch, interesting enough compared to the other scouting parties of king’s soldiers and Ash Warriors who had come hunting darkspawn before them. The Wilds had become unsteady as of late, with increased darkspawn activity, and when reports reached the outer world, it had brought armies to the ruins of Ostagar. Morrigan had been monitoring them all closely, wondering if any would venture deep enough into the swamps to find Flemeth’s home. None had come so far as these Wardens.

Had she not revealed herself, had she not told them of Flemeth’s involvement in the so-called “theft” of their ancient scrolls, things might have been different. Or perhaps they might not. Flemeth had her eye on the Wardens, too.

Still, back then she had thought to see the last of them when they had their treaties and were on their way back to Ostagar. She liked the Dalish girl, who had serious eyes, who alone had spoken to her with respect and had not been afraid of her “Chasind look” or the magic that she wielded. But the other three, especially the tall rude one who called her a sneaky witch thief, were nothing to her and she would not have thought of them again, except perhaps to recall the insult and curse the memory of him.

But Flemeth had other ideas, taking wing in dragon form to interfere in the course of things, to rescue the Wardens from their certain doom and bring them home for healing. After she made it plain that Morrigan was to leave her side once more, that she was being pushed out the door to join these helpless fools on their quest to stop the Blight, Flemeth followed her inside and told her that she had plans. Secret plans that only Morrigan should hear.

While Morrigan packed her things, resigned to being forced from home on a task once more, Flemeth talked of the Grey Warden taint, their magical bond to the darkspawn and the archdemon, and of capturing the soul of the blighted dragon within a fresh vessel of human flesh. A baby. A child who would bear just enough of the taint to take the place of the Warden who would otherwise perish in the final confrontation, as they had done four times before, to end four blights.

Morrigan listened with mild irritation at first, thinking more about what she could take with her out of the Wilds without overburdening herself and overstuffing her pack, but then as she understood what Flemeth was telling her, she paused. She asked questions. She pondered what her Mother wanted her to do. She wondered if this had been the plan all along, if Flemeth had wanted her to learn to lure men to her bed so that she could go out into the world and get a Warden’s child to trap the soul of an old god. But how could Flemeth have known that another Blight would come, and that twould originate in the very Wilds she called her home? Is that why she lived there in the first place? Because she was waiting? Is that why she had raised a daughter, a young woman who would be the right age to carry a child when the Blight came? How did Flemeth know, how could she have planned so perfectly? Her mother would not say; she would only babble cryptically about how things always worked out in the end.

Twas too much to think about. Flemeth was a mystery even to the one person who had lived by her side for more than twenty winters, now. Morrigan could not have said if the stories that the Chasind and the Dalish told about the Witches of the Wilds were true or not, she could not even say if the stories Flemeth told her were true. Anything, or nothing, could be true.

To quiet these thoughts, she tuned her mother’s words out, and went to stand by a small window that looked out upon the front of the house. From that window she could see the Wardens as they waited for her. Lythra, the Dalish girl, was standing with her head down, fiddling with the feathers on her arrows. Alistair, the tall rude Warden who had been so suspicious of her before, was idly tossing rocks into the pond, sending them skipping across the surface, once, twice, thrice, before they sank into the murky depths.

“Do you like this one? I thought you would. I went and got him just for you.” Flemeth sounded quite proud of herself.

“Are you mad? He is dim-witted, rude, and has spent the better part of a day sobbing and moaning about this Duncan person,” said Morrigan, turning from the window to gaze at her mother in disbelief. “Why would I want such a fool in my bed?”

“Oh, do not be difficult, child,” Flemeth chided. “He is strong, and handsome.”

“He is soft and stupid.”

“You do not need to fall in love with the fool. I am thinking about the child he will give you, which is all you need from him. He has an excellent bloodline—there is magic in his heritage, though he does not know it. I can smell it. Like a hound. I have a nose for these things.”

Sometimes her mother said such odd things, that even Morrigan, who had been raised by the woman, could do nothing but shake her head. “He was a templar.”

“Yes, the children of mages often make the best templars,” Flemeth said, “and don’t think the Chantry doesn’t know that. But come now, do not look so dour. If he is as simple minded as you fear, you should have no trouble bending him to your will.”

“I could hardly respect a man so easily bent,” muttered Morrigan.

“Then do not respect him. It matters little. Perform the ritual with him or another suitable Warden, if you can find one. Come back to me and we will raise the child together, you and I. You needn’t worry about the character of the father as he needn’t even know that you are with child when you take your leave. Kill him when you are through, if you like—it matters not at all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” Morrigan sighed. She pulled her favorite blanket from her bed, a skin of thick bear fur, and rolled it up as small and tight as she could make it, so that she could tie it to the outside of her pack. Who knew where she would find herself; she was determined to salvage what little comforts of home she could.

“Good.” Flemeth patted her arm, a smile of fond approval—or smug anticipation—lighting her face. “Do try to smile, dear. Do you know, your own father was as dim as they come, but so very handsome and with such a winning smile. And look at you, you have grown up so beautiful, as I knew you would. I am good at picking out fathers, so you should listen to my advice.”

Morrigan faltered as she tightened the cinches of the leather straps holding the blanket in place. Flemeth had never shared information about her father before. When Morrigan had been younger and still curious enough to ask, Flemeth had only  _ tsked _ and said it did not matter, that the only thing Morrigan needed to know was that she belonged to Flemeth.

“Who was he?” she asked, lightly. “Someone with a good bloodline?”

“Who?”

“My father.”

“Oh. A no one, a man who wandered my way from one of the Chasind villages. He had a little magic in his family tree. Not enough to get excited over.”

“Then why did you choose him?”

Flemeth shrugged, but twas deceptive, for her eyes were glimmering keenly at Morrigan as she answered, “I decided it was time I had a daughter, and there he was, and I knew he would do. I made sure that when he passed my way he found an alluring woman waiting for him, ha!”

Flemeth laughed and struck a little pose that Morrigan thought revolting, though twas meant to be flirtatious.

“You used a strong illusion charm, then,” she remarked.

“Hmph. He wasn’t as sour and difficult as the daughter I got from him, certainly.” Flemeth frowned at Morrigan, the fond approval fading away. She straightened her back. “He did everything I asked, without sass. Ah well, I suppose you get that from me and I have only myself to blame.”

“And I suppose you dumped his body in the pond when you were through with him.”

“Oh ho ho,” Flemeth laughed with delight. All she did was laugh with that twinkly  _ wouldn’t you like to know  _ look in her eyes. Flemeth used to hang the bodies of trespassers from the trees as warnings, when she wasn’t luring them in. There was little question whether she was ruthless enough for such a thing.

Morrigan sniffed. She was more than the sum parts of her parents, whether there was any truth in the story or not. She was herself. But she did not argue with Flemeth or pressure her for further information. It had been a long time since she’d speculated about her father, or whether Flemeth was even truly her mother. How she came to be and who had brought her into this world mattered little. She was in it. She would make her own way, eventually.

When she left the Wilds she promised herself that her mother’s wishes were not inevitable. Twas an interesting prospect, capturing the soul of an old god, but she could choose to do it or she could not. She could return to her mother after the Blight or she could never darken that door again. Twas up to her. Flemeth had pushed her out of the hut, ordered her out of the swamp, directed her to bed the insufferable templar boy when the time was right, but she was under no obligation to keep playing these games. What would be the reward if she brought this treasure back to Flemeth, carrying a grandchild within her whom Flemeth would claim as her own? What would Morrigan get after pushing out the babe? Another task, another challenge, another hurdle to leap over before Flemeth would decide that whatever she had done to get a daughter was worth it.

Alistair, the man whom her mother had so tactlessly offered to her on a platter, groused about taking her along even after twas clear she was prepared to accompany them. “Do you really want to take her along just because her mother says so?” he asked the Dalish girl, as if Morrigan were not standing right there.

Lythra looked at Morrigan appraisingly. “I wouldn’t force anyone to leave their home and join the Wardens,” she said. “No right of conscription here. If your mother wishes you gone and you cannot stay here, you may travel with us, but we don’t expect you to stay with us or fight with us against the Blight.”

“I have already made my decision,” Morrigan said. “I will guide you out of the Wilds and travel with you as long as you have need of me.”

Lythra nodded silently, but Alistair pestered, “Well, can you at least cook?”

She glared at him. “I… can cook, yes, but surely you can think of better uses for me.”

“We're not going to make you cook," Lythra sighed, shaking her head at Alistair.

“Well, that was your chance; it’s going to be charred rabbit from here on out,” he told them, shrugging nonchalantly and attempting a disarming smile, as if his eyes were not still red-rimmed from weeping over the lost Ser Duncan. As if he hadn’t spent the better part of the day acting like he was going to drown himself in the pond given half a chance.

Lythra’s recovery had done something to lift his spirits, and Morrigan could not decide which version of him she found more annoying—the sad sack who had given up hope, or the flippant fool who did not appreciate her help or respect her abilities whatsoever.

She decided that it did not matter.

She hoisted her pack onto her back and promised herself she would do nothing she did not wish to. Starting that very day. And she  _ did _ wish to leave the Wilds, she  _ did  _ wish to leave her mother’s house once more, though she had not known it till then. She wished to be her own woman, and she could never be that so long as she stayed in the Wilds, in the shadow of her mother’s tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any fic I write with Morrigan in it is going to somehow turn into a thesis on Why Flemeth Is Still an Abusive Parent Who Fucked Morrigan Up as a Child, despite the Inquisition retcon of the her outright villainous possession plotline. I made all this particular backstory up but it is heavily inspired/based on Morrigan's canon dialogue to the Warden about her upbringing as well as the [Party Banter](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Morrigan/Dialogue#Morrigan_and_Leliana) with Leliana regarding Flemeth and her sexual violence (as earlier referenced/quoted in Chapter One of this fic) which you may or may not take at face value, but is pretty disturbing if you do. This will continue to be a theme well into the Inquisition era fics of this series.
> 
> On a lighter note, all the chapters have titles now, which is very all very exciting and whatnot. "Building Her Wreck" comes from the song [Daddy's In the Doldrums](https://youtu.be/TPcOPXOgA34) by The Secret Machines and I will be using more lines from this song for the Haven chapter titles.


	17. Frozen Dark / A Breath of Overcasting Black (Haven)

Snow drifted in at the edges of the ruined temple hall, piling into mounds bulwarked by columns of ice.

Alistair stood near a crumbling section of the wall and peered out at the world beyond. Outside everything was blinding white, the valley below the mountain temple obscured by the driving snow. It hurt his eyes. It worried him.

The blizzard had hit just as they felled the high dragon who ruled over this place, as if it was an ill omen, or a punishment for what they had done.

They’d fought so hard to make it to the ashes at the end of the labyrinthian caverns and ancient ruined corridors; battling waves of cultists and fending off dragonlings and drakes, pressing ever onward. To prove their worth they passed a gauntlet of tests; riddles and puzzles and battles against their shadow selves. And they had managed all that without losing a single member of the party.

And then they left with a pinch of the precious ashes and were met by the dragon atop the mountain.

She had a name, Andraste, though he could not believe as the cultists did that she was the prophet reborn. But still, the dragon named Andraste accosted them as they tried to leave, as if knowing that they had refused to defile the ashes and set her soul free.

He shook his head. All lies and nonsense, that… no, if she attacked them it was because they had slain so many of her offspring and her mates… they had disturbed her lair… she was an animal defending her territory, not a goddess punishing the unfaithful.

Now, Barkspawn would not stop howling.

He sat near the top of the steps and pointed his snout at the vaulted ceiling, letting out a low mournful yowl that washed over the hall in waves.

“Alistair.” It was Wynne’s voice, quiet. He turned away from the vision of wintery death that lay outside the ruins and looked at her. The elder mage was exhausted, her grey hair a disheveled mess, grime and blood streaking her face. “We should go,” she said. “I have done all the healing I can.”

“No,” he said, sighing regretfully. “It’s gotten too bad, now. Look.” He gestured to the blowing snow outside. “Unless you can stop the snow or create a path down the mountain with magic, we’re stuck here until the storm passes.”

“That is not what magic is for, and I doubt even Morrigan and I together could muster the power to do such a thing right now,” Wynne said, after surveying the blizzard for a moment. She brushed a weary hand across her face.

Alistair wondered what good it did to have mages present if they couldn’t do that, and what was magic for if not to help them on their way? But he knew better than to voice these churlish thoughts out loud. Wynne had been working overtime to tend the wounded. The fact that she didn’t have anything left to give was not her fault… but now was the worst time to be trapped on a mountain in the Frostbacks.

The storm could last for days and bury them ten feet deep in snow, barring the passes back down to the lowlands. They could, he knew, very well be marooned here until spring, cut off from supplies, forced to eat dragon flesh or starve. And what would they find in the spring if they did survive? Ferelden, a wasteland, wiped out by the Blight? Arl Eamon dead because it didn’t do a lick of good to have the ashes if they couldn’t get to him?

He shook his head, jarring the fatalistic thoughts loose. They would not be stuck here till spring. Even if the storm lasted a week, they would find a way to get down the mountain. They’d have to. They had no choice.

“Looks like we might be spending Satinalia up here in this temple,” he told Wynne, wincing as Barkspawn let out a fresh barrage of howling, somehow deeper and sadder than before.

Satinalia, or Feastday, was the annum that marked the end of autumn and the beginning of winter. It was fitting that the storm would usher out Harvestmere and herald the start of Firstfall, but it reminded him of his failure to find the ashes and get back to Redcliffe before winter hit.

“Fortunately, the dagon worshippers who lived here left many supplies behind,” said Wynne, pragmatic as always. He appreciated that about her. She wasn’t one to wallow in regret.

“We should hole up the smaller chambers off the main hall,” said Alistair, gazing around at the snow drifts which were growing larger as the storm snaked through the crumbling walls and broken windows. “In the rooms that aren’t exposed to the elements.”

“As you say,” Wynne agreed. “But I would like us not to all spread out and get lost in the maze. Who knows what further dangers we might encounter in a place like this.”

Due to all the structural damage, some areas of the temple hall were little better than being outside, despite the giant firepit which burned away near the grand staircase. Off to the sides of the main cathedral were many hallways and chambers which they had investigated earlier, some leading into a network of caverns and others leading to store rooms and living quarters. The ruined temple had been teaming with life when they arrived, housing more people than the village itself, and they’d had killed them all.

They’d also fought many demons summoned by the enemy mages, and after so much death and ritual sacrifice, the veil was sure to be thin in this place. Demons would be poised at the edges of the weakened barrier between their world and the spirit realm.

“Will you be alright?” he asked, eyeing Wynne with concern. She almost looked on death’s door, though she had been safe from the dragon’s attacks herself.

“I will be fine,” Wynne assured him. She smiled through her exhaustion, but then added, “I do worry about Morrigan, though, in a place like this. I wonder if she has the training to withstand the temptations of the Fade where the Veil is so tenuous.”

“Morrigan is more likely to sacrifice the rest of us to demons than become an abomination herself,” Alistiar said, hoping he sounded wry and unconcerned. But Wynne was wiser than that, she saw right through him, and gave him a gentle pitying look.

He had already talked at length to Wynne about Morrigan since leaving Honnleath. He’d had little else to do as they journeyed up into the mountains towards Haven. The nights in camp were getting longer as winter fast approached, and he couldn’t sleep, didn’t even want to sleep, so he sat up long past his watch, restless and lonely in the dark. Others would take their turns, shaking their heads at him and imploring him to rest, but Wynne let him sit with her and talk. She was a good listener, she had kind eyes, and he didn’t even mind when she told him in a patronizing tone that he reminded her of her son.

She didn’t know her son, had never met the child or the man he had become, had not even been allowed to hold him after giving birth, as if the Chantry nurses feared her putting a hex on the babe. Wynne told him how much it had hurt to have to let the baby go, even though she had known from the moment of discovering her pregnancy that she would not be allowed to keep it. In return, Alistair told her about growing up in Redcliffe all alone, with just a vague idea of who his mother might have been, and the knowledge that she had been unlikely to have held him in her dying moments.

Their conversations always inevitably turned towards Morrigan, though, because he could think of little else. Wynne was sympathetic, though she still did not approve of the relationship.

“You can love someone without understanding why,” Wynne had murmured quietly, as they stood watch together, looking up at the endless expanse of cloudless sky. There had been no hint of snow that night, no warning that a winter storm was on its way. Up in the mountains as they were, it felt like they could reach up and touch the sky, grab a few stars or rearrange the constellations. “You can love someone who is not right for you. The Maker knows I have done so. I cannot tell you what to do about it, Alistair, for our situations are different, but I can tell you what I learned.”

“And what is that?” he’d prompted, watching his breath blow away in wisps.

“Letting go is the hardest thing to do but it is the most freeing feeling in the world,” she said. “It lightens your soul in ways you cannot imagine to unclench your fist and release the thing you want to keep the most.”

Alistair thought she’d gotten a raw deal, one she didn’t deserve. He probably deserved what he was dealing with now. He’d known who Morrigan was, what kind of person she was, when he’d decided to knock on her door that first fateful night in Denerim. And he’d chosen to keep returning to her, to her tent, even knowing that he was falling hard, that it wasn’t just about the sex for him. Maker but he was a fool.

When Wynne talked of “letting go” he didn't know if she was talking about the son who’d been taken from her by the Chantry, or the man who had fathered him. Though she opened up about the son, she was very tight lipped about the father, as if she feared getting the mage (or templar, or whoever he’d been) in trouble even thirty-some years after their “youthful indiscretions.”

Right about now Alistair needed advice on how to get over an incompatible lover, more than how to get over a stolen child.

Morrigan turned her back to him every time he looked at her as they traveled from Honnleath to Haven. Every night she retreated to her tent early and tied the canvas shut tight behind her.

He should let go. He had to let go. He’d gotten the experience he had wanted, back in Denerim. All he’d wanted from her was sex, right? And they’d had lots of sex in the weeks since. It was time to be done. That kind of relationship had an expiration date and he knew they were well past it, now. He’d broken the first rule she had put in place,  _ don’t be sentimental and dream of love, _ and here was a harsh reminder.

Morrigan didn’t love him and he should not love her. They were too different. Too opposed to the other’s way of thinking to ever make it work.

The sex had been good. Great, even. True he had nothing to compare it to, but it had been—and he did not think he was overstating this—some of the best moments of his entire life, to date. But even more, the nights warming each other through till dawn had been a boon to his very soul. But was it Morrigan he had come to love, or was it the sheer comfort of companionship, of simply having someone lovely and warm to fall asleep with and wake up to? At the moment it seemed an impossible question. Either way, he had to stop, had to put up a boundary before he got well and truly screwed beyond all imagining.

Wynne was telling him that, and Leliana was telling him that, and even Duran and Aedan were telling him that—saying that he shouldn’t get so worked up about the first woman he’d ever had a tumble with. Coming from Aedan it almost seemed too rich, too hypocritical, but then again Aedan knew better than anyone how it felt for a relationship with Morrigan to end badly. Duran, on the other hand, talked about all the women he’d had in Orzammar, all the noble hunters looking for a child to elevate themselves, and boasted that he’d never bedded the same woman twice.

Only Natia rolled her eyes at him and told him he was being stupid, that he should go to Morrigan’s tent and at least talk to her.

But they’d talked in Honnleath. They’d both said everything he could think of to say, had stated their positions clearly, and neither could budge. What was the point of talking more? If he went to Morrigan’s tent, if she let him in, they wouldn’t talk. They’d just have sex and try to forget that they’d ever been to Honnleath, and maybe that would feel good for the night, but what would happen the next time? The next Honnleath?

“You need to do something about your hound.”

It was Duran, now, who approached him. Wynne had gone, leaving him to his thoughts and his glum thousand yard stare. “I’m sorry?”

“Look we’re all sad about Cousland’s dog, it’s a damned shame, but if yours doesn’t shut up I’m going to send him to the same place, I swear by the stone.”

“Lay a finger on my dog and you’re a dead dwarf,” Alistiar snapped, barely recognizing himself in those words. Then, deflating a little, he agreed, “I’ll take care of it.”

He crossed the great hall and climbed the steps to where Barkspawn sat howling.

“Hey buddy, you gotta stop, you’re not helping anyone,” he said, reaching out to stroke the warhound’s head. Barkspawn quieted to a whimper, wagging his tail listlessly, but leaned into Alistair’s hand to accept the pets. “I know you miss him but this isn’t gonna bring him back.”

Barkspawn uttered a low growl in disagreement or denial.

“Why don’t you go find Aedan, eh? He could use a friend right now I’ll bet.”

Surprisingly, that worked. Barkspawn huffed and turned away from his hand and trotted down the steps. Mabari really were the smartest animals he’d ever encountered, unsettlingly so.

That made it hard to think about what had happened to Calenhad. He could still see the image of that terrible moment in his mind. It would be burned there forever. The dragon had snatched up the dog in its massive jaws and thrown back its head, crushing Calenhad, who uttered a sharp yelp of pain that was cut off abruptly and replaced by the sound of crunching bone and squelching blood.

The false Andraste had then tossed the lifeless Calenhad away, dashing the dog upon the rocks far below. There followed a silence worse than any sound, until the dragon roared again, challenging them to do their worst in retaliation.

Aedan wasn’t taking it well. Oh sure, Cousland wanted everyone to think he was being stoic and dealing with it. But there was something even worse about his dry eyes and the fury that sat in on his face where sadness belonged. He’d soldiered on, he’d fought the dragon tooth and nail, and he’d had his revenge against the beast, driving his sword into its shoulder and dragging a long jagged rip through it that gushed blood onto the snowy ground, staining it and himself red.

He’d tried to climb down the rocky slope to retrieve his dog, but by then the snow had started to fall and the winds were picking up, and Alistair had to go stop him.

Oddly, he remembered Elissa’s words to him back at Redcliffe. Her plea that he watch out for Aedan and stop any self-destructive behaviors. Not that he needed her to tell him to look out for a friend and ally, but it made him shiver with the sheer foresight of it. If Aedan had seemed at the end of his rope before, angry all the time because nothing seemed to be going his way, what would he be like now, without his faithful hound?

Well, the sight of him trying to scale down a mountain during a snowstorm to get the corpse of said hound was an answer to that question.

No healing magic would bring Calenhad back. He had fallen so far and been so mangled that not even Wynne could revive him. 

There were others badly wounded after the fight with the dragon. Leliana was barely clinging to life, Natia could not get up and walk on her own, and one of Duran’s arms hung limply at his side. Luckily Alistair was relatively unharmed, which made him feel curiously lucky, but as Morrigan and Wynne tried to help the gravely wounded, he had to go after Aedan and stop him from falling to his death off the mountain.

“Leave me alone, Alistair,” Cousland had said, slipping a little on the ice even as he said it. “I’m not leaving him down there.” The snow was caught in his dark hair and his face was gray and cold under the scrapes and the blood.

Barkspawn, ever the nimble hound, had already made his way down to where Calenhad lay dashed on the rocks, and was sniffing at his fallen friend. But for two humans it would be much harder going and Alistair didn’t see how they’d get back up holding the dog.

“We’ll come back for him later,” he said. “This is the start of a big storm… just look at that sky.” It had been blue when they’d crossed the crumbling stone bridge earlier, but now the clouds had rolled in and turned everything a blank white. The wind snatched his words from his mouth.

“There won’t be a later. The snow will bury him and we won’t be able to find him. Wolves will drag him away, or dragonlings will get him. No.”

“Aedan, there are hurt people that need our help. We’ve got to get the wounded inside.”

“Leave me alone!” Aedan shouted. It was almost a bellow.

Alistair did the only thing he could think of, which was to grab Aedan by his armor and drag him bodily back up the hill towards the path back to the temple. It was a struggle, but he had a few inches and several pounds on Cousland, and he wasn’t nearly as weakened from the battle. He had to throw a few punches, which he felt bad about because Aedan had already been severely battered by the dragon’s tail, but in the end he won out, hooking his arms under Aedan’s and dragging him back to the others.

He knew Cousland would never thank him for it, but he was sure that if he let Aedan go down there he’d never be coming back up. He’d fall to his death or get trapped by the storm.

Even Barkspawn had trouble getting back up, scrabbling at the rocks and sliding in the snow as he tried to find purchase. He was lucky he was low to the ground and the wind didn’t pick him up and throw him down the same way Calenhad had been thrown by the dragon.

They all made it back inside, eventually. Without Wynne’s healing spells and Morrigan’s elfroot poultices they’d have been doomed, with wounds too serious to make it back inside before the storm hit. Leliana would have bled out in the snow and Natia would have needed to be carried inside. As it was she’d had to be held up by Morrigan and Wynne as she limped along. Shale carried Leliana in its granite arms, grumbling about being used as a packmule all the while.

Without Shale, who was as implacable as the mountain itself, none of them would have even survived against the dragon. Without the golem to act as a battering ram and a distraction, they’d all be like Calenhad, lying mangled leagues below where the dragon had tossed their corpses aside.

Now that Barkspawn had finally quieted down, he went over to check up on Leliana. She was laying on a mat by the fire, recuperating along with Duran and Natia. He patted her shoulder when she murmured that she would be alright, that she still intended to hand out gifts to everyone for Feastday.

“Don’t worry about that, just save your strength for the journey back to Redcliffe,” he said. “We’ll do a belated gift exchange there. Possibly Lythra and the others will be there, too.”

“No,” she insisted, “we will celebrate here, tonight.”

“I don’t think Aedan’s in the mood to celebrate anything.”

“He needs it more than anyone,” she disagreed.

“Alright, well, you do you Lels,” he said, giving up on trying to get anyone in the party to listen to him and take care of themselves. “Just don’t make Wynne have to heal you anymore, she’s given all she can today.”

Leliana had been talking about the upcoming Satinalia celebration the entire time they traveled towards Haven. She’d had hopes that they could celebrate the holiday in the village after they had secured the ashes, had even speculated on if there would be a local village festival they could join in on. “If we are successful, if we locate the ashes, this will truly be a Feastday to remember,” she had said, blue eyes wide with anticipation.

She was the most religious of all of them. To her, the prospect of finding the ashes meant more than just a way to revive Arl Eamon. To her it was a holy pilgrimage, an affirmation that the Maker himself had set her on this journey with the Wardens. Her eyes had shone with wonder the entire time they traversed the gauntlet. She had reacted with righteous outrage when the cultist leader proposed a deal to avoid further bloodshed, asking them to defile the sacred ashes with the blood of the dragon, and Alistiar had thought she’d kill even him if they’d taken Kolgrim up on the offer.

To be fair, Alistair didn’t much like the idea of defiling Andraste’s ashes, either. He might be a pretty lapsed Andrastan but he wasn’t an outright heretic. If the ashes did end up healing Eamon, it would prove that there was power in Andraste’s remains, and that had to mean something. Didn’t it?

At the very least it was a good joke. Wouldn’t the sisters at the Chantry be flummoxed to learn that Alistair, the most unruly and irreverent templar initiate they’d ever had the displeasure of raising, had been among those who found the lost urn and the holy ashes. Brother Genitivi was sure to mention him in his next book.

“We need food and drink to have a proper Feastday celebration, and a wake for Calenhad,” Leliana said, wincing as she tried to sit up. “I have my lute. There will be music. We’ll do the best we can.”

“Alright,” Alistair agreed. “I’ll take care of finding the food and drink. I know I saw a kitchen and a storeroom and something like a wine cellar earlier. You rest up.”

He looked around to see where everyone was before he left, and noted that Barkspawn had found Aedan where he sat alone in a corner, and that Cousland was mechanically petting the dog. Well, that was something. Wynne was talking to Brother Genitivi, and Duran and Natia were still resting close by the central bonfire. Shale stood by them, like a sentinel, looking down at the wounded dwarves with what might be considered a thoughtful expression.

He didn’t see Morrigan, and told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t need to know where she was at all times, but that didn’t stop him from taking another sweeping look around the hall. It was far too big a place to see into every corner all at once, but he still didn’t think she was there. She must have also gone off looking for something in the chambers deeper in the temple. She could be anywhere.

He put her from his mind as best he could, and set off to take stock of what there was available to them. He should get something alcoholic for Leliana’s Satinalia celebration. They did have things to celebrate. They’d killed a dragon that had been ten times fiercer than Flemeth, they’d successfully retrieved the ashes, and most of them were still alive. They all deserved a drink.


End file.
